


No Secret Anymore

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Character Study, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, M/M, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock are trying to cope with the ghastly day in Sherrinford. Mycroft has a secret that he reveals involuntarily when Sherlock just tries to be nice, for once.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 58
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



> With heartfelt thanks to my dear SlytherinsDragon, who keeps up with my Germanisms and always offers support :)

For the first time in what felt like ages, there was silence around Mycroft Holmes.

In the car that had brought him home, he had been separated from his discreet and trusted driver by the privacy screen so no words had been spoken, but there had still been the muffled noises of the traffic and the unpleasant sound of wheels rolling on wet streets. Even in his stupor, staring out onto the dimly lit streets, the noise had made his head thrum a bit more.

Before, there had been screams. At him. Mycroft was not used to being shouted at. For incompetence. For mismanaging a situation so badly that people had died. The accusations had not made him feel much worse, as that had hardly been possible, nor had they been necessary to make him aware of his failure. He had watched those people die, and every one of those deaths was weighing on the soul he indeed had albeit denying it.

Just like his brother, he clearly was not some sort of angel or saint. He had dedicated his life to Queen and country and he had made hard decisions to protect it for the past two decades, and it had never given him sleepless nights. But giving an order – never a written one though as his existence was so hush-hush – to take out terrorists or rogue agents or traitors was something completely different than actually watching people die. Innocent people. Well, innocence was a relative term. The governor had brought this over himself by ignoring his orders to never engage with Eurus. At least one of the Garrideb brothers had been a murderer. But the other two? The governor’s wife? Victims of a war they had not known they were participating at. The war of a vengeful little girl in the body of a grown-up, mentally disturbed woman, lashing out at her brothers. But of course she had not wanted to see _Sherlock_ dead, just him, Mycroft, for the crime of having her locked up for all those years. So she had saved Sherlock from shooting himself – for which Mycroft would forever be grateful.

In the heavenly silence of his house, he poured himself a generous drink. He had not switched on the lights. He had hung up his coat in the dark after leaning his umbrella against the wall. Carrying his briefcase, he had stalked through the dark corridor towards the living room at the other end of the floor. It was no problem for him to manoeuvre in the dark in this house he knew so well. He had always been fond of the darkness. In his profession, he was used to operating in the shadows. After all those years, he had become a part of them, and that suited his misanthropic personality just fine.

He was trying not to think. Not of the deaths. Not of the horror he had been feeling seeing Sherlock direct the bloody gun at his own head. Or the desperation he had experienced when he had woken up in Eurus’ cell, not knowing if Sherlock had made it out alive.

Now, nearly twenty hours since being told by the police that his brother was fine, after organising Eurus’ now safe incarceration during what had been left of the night in his Diogenes office, followed by a hellish day at Whitehall, the shock had not vanished. He had somehow survived that day, a day filled with hard words he fully deserved. No lunch, no break, no rest. And he had not been able to do the work that had piled up on his desk as it did on every given day so he had brought a dozen folders home to work a few hours more before the next cycle began. He should have been deadly tired but he knew he would be too wired to sleep. So he took his drink to his office upstairs, feeling wobbly on his feet out of sheer exhaustion.

When he had fallen heavily onto his chair, the folders carelessly thrown onto his desk, he felt that he was unable to move a finger. He had to remind himself to blink. Everything felt numb and sore at the same time. His eyes were stinging. His heart was heavy with dread and guilt. His stomach was empty but the thought of eating anything made him feel nauseous.

After what felt like ages, he opened the first file. On the first page the photograph of agent Thomas Cunnings, thirty-two, the dark hair slicked back, the blue eyes cold. Lost in Afghanistan a day ago. A tragedy? Or the actions of a double agent?

He didn't get to read anything more as he couldn’t have cared less right now. The attractive face of the lost man turned into the features of the only man Mycroft Holmes had ever loved. And would ever love. He could see Sherlock's cheekbones appear, the wide eyes of the agent narrowing to his brother’s mercurial cat eyes.

So close. It had been so fucking close. What life would there have been for him if Sherlock had pulled the trigger – not at him, Mycroft, but at himself? The answer to this was an easy one. None at all. There would be no life without baby brother. Sherlock was everything. The faithful little boy, the sulking teen, the hopeless addict, the beautiful grown man with all his resentments against him. A kaleidoscope of pictures was whirling in Mycroft's mind, images merging with each other, completing a picture of love and care and all the unspeakable sentiments, too.

Mycroft's shields had been disrupted like never before in these minutes which he had assumed to be his last. He knew he had shown his feelings too openly before Sherlock had decided to rather threaten to kill himself than shoot him. But of course little brother had not understood, had not seen. Thank God. And whatever responsibility he had been feeling for his older brother had vanished when he’d had John back after playing along with Eurus to have the doctor being saved from the fate little Victor Trevor had not been able to escape from.

In an unheard-of touch of care, Sherlock had sent his friend Greg Lestrade to check on him. Care by proxy, it had to be called. The policeman, busy with the imploded Garrideb-case, had spared him a visit, thank God, but he had called Mycroft to ask how he was doing, and Mycroft had assured him that he was just fine. Probably the older man had not believed him but what could he have done? Mycroft had not wanted his company, let alone his sympathy. Or anyone else’s for that matter.

He had gone to the office at once, dealing with the Sherrinford disaster. And Sherlock had gone home with John Watson as his own flat still resembled a war zone after the explosion. The status quo had mostly been restored. Sherlock and John. The dream team. Still. In or out of 221B Baker Street, it didn't matter. After all that had happened – the guilt, the hurt, the violence. And Mycroft on the other side – alone, as he had always been. And suddenly, this had become too hard to bear. Feelings and longings of a past he had literally locked away rose in him. Just a look. One look at something he should not even possess. The doors to his heart were wide open. Vulnerable he was; there was no denying it.

He poured himself another drink. And then he got up and walked over to the opposite wall. He opened the safe that was hidden behind the wooden panels. Took out a slightly crumpled envelope he should have burnt a long time ago. Opened it to let its contents slide onto the desk. And stared at them. Stared and longed and burned, and tried to soothe the burn with another drink, and then another. But the burn would never stop, and in the end it would burn him from inside, and now, after this massive failure, this hurt and guilt and being torn apart, he did not even care.

*****

“You’re sure you don't wanna come with us? I’m sure Molly could look after Rosie.”

“No, thanks. A quiet evening at… Well, _here_ is all I need.” Sherlock could hardly call this place his _home_. It was the flat that John had been sharing with Mary. Whose death still weighed heavily on him. John had forgiven him for the actions that had led to Mary being shot as it had been her decision after all. And he had also said sorry for unleashing his wrath on him in the morgue of this sodding hospital. They had buried the subject afterwards – after those three to four sentences about something so explosive… They were still behaving awkwardly around each other whenever they were alone. Rosie was serving as a distraction during the daytime. But until the explosion in 221B, they had avoided spending time with each other in the evenings, when they were surrounded by silence. Silence was bad. Silence gave them time to think and might even force them to actually _talk_.

Sherlock knew he had deserved John’s wrath. Perhaps he had even provoked it. To cleanse him from his massive failure in dealing with Vivian Norbury. His nemesis. Deadlier than Moriarty and Magnussen after all. But John had crossed a line in a way that made it impossible to feel relaxed in his presence now. They had never been that physical with each other. Perhaps there had even been a time when Sherlock had vaguely considered the possibility of them becoming, well, physical with one another in a completely different way. A positive way. They had been very close for a short while; close enough for him to overthink his ‘married to my work’ lifestyle at least in some theoretical way. But it had never come to this, and these times were long gone and so was the lightness and trust of their early days. Mary’s shadow would forever linger between them. The hatred on John’s face when he had kicked him into the ground was something Sherlock would never forget.

But that was not the reason for him feeling relieved that John would go out with Lestrade tonight. Well, not the main reason.

He had simply not been feeling like himself. For a long time, actually, but it had become especially evident after it had been all over – when John had been sitting next to him, shivering, wrapped in a blanket, after having been rescued from the bloody well. The tension and horrors of this night, spent with playing his monstrous sister’s games, had slowly vanished. So had this insane moment of closeness with Eurus. It had worked. She had allowed him to save John. And then she had been brought away, back to Sherrinford, where she had been awaited by people who would make sure she would never run free again. Sherlock had been feeling hollow and sore, sitting next to his best friend. Or the man who had once been his best friend. He had been feeling… lost.

But that was not quite right, was it? He’d had an epiphany in Sherrinford. An overdue epiphany. No matter if John left his life again. If Lestrade had enough of him. If Molly never spoke to him again after this blasted phone call. If Mrs Hudson didn’t let him move back into Baker Street for causing so much damage to her property and her nerves. No matter if everybody dropped him, he would never be alone. There would always be someone to catch him when he fell.

His brother.

The man who had just offered his life in Sherrinford. Who had not been able to shoot someone cold-bloodedly. Who had been feeling guilty for Eurus’ misdeeds, for allowing her a conversation with Sherlock's archenemy Moriarty. Who had woken up in Eurus’ cell, alone. What had he been thinking? Had he seen Sherlock being sedated too before he had lost consciousness? Or had he been taken out, not knowing if Sherlock had survived?

It had been wrong to ask Greg to look after his brother. It had been wrong not to talk to him himself. Sherlock had just been feeling numb and exhausted but that was no excuse. He could and should have at least called, or in the very least texted him. But he had not done it.

Since he had arrived at John’s flat the other night, he had taken his phone plenty of times to write a text to his brother, but he had always put it away without writing a single word. There was something that kept him from reaching out to his brother… Something disturbing had been going on, in this moment in which Mycroft had thought he would shoot him. And how could he have? How could his smart brother not have deduced that Sherlock was just playing for time? Deceiving Eurus?

It hurt. It hurt to know that he had been such a horrible arsehole of a little brother that Mycroft had seriously thought he would murder him without so much as hesitating.

Sherlock was experiencing a feeling that had not been bothering him very often in his life. Shame. He had completely and utterly failed as a human being. Not just in dealing with Norbury. He had fucked it up with Mycroft over decades.

And Mycroft had never let him down. And he had been willing to die at Sherlock's hands, just to save John, who meant absolutely nothing to him. And that look… What had been happening in this moment? It made him feel dizzy just to attempt thinking about it.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

Sherlock winced at John’s voice as he had blanked him out completely. “Sure. Just go. I’ll make sure Rosie’s fine and go to bed.” It was nine-thirty, and John looked rather exhausted himself. But if he thought he had to go out, well, Sherlock was not his mother. But he did not feel the slightest wish to accompany him. And asking Molly to babysit would probably not be the smartest thing to do. John had explained the phone call to her but Sherlock was sure that she was still hurt and feeling humiliated. Eurus was very good at making people feel like this…

“Good. If there’s any problem…”

“…I’ll text you at once,” Sherlock assured the doctor. “Now go and greetings to George.” One should think Lestrade had spent enough time with them today, speaking about the Garrideb case, but apparently he was too wound up to go to sleep early, too.

“His name is…”

“…Greg, I know.” Sherlock gave John a wry grin and it was returned with a rather fond-looking smile and an almost Holmes-like eye-roll.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock watched him finally leave, and then he slowly got up to have a look at the baby.

And he wondered what he had to do to stop feeling all wrong and like a stranger to himself. And how to understand what had been happening between him and Mycroft under John’s and Eurus’ very noses.

*****

There was no noise from John’s room. The bedroom he had shared with Mary. Sherlock had heard him come home rather late, and he had probably drunk some beers with the DI.

It was still awfully early anyway. When he dragged himself out of his guest room bed, Sherlock felt as if he had aged twenty years in the past two days. Well, probably the past few _years_ had taken their toll. It had not been a walk in the park, his life, ever since he had confronted Moriarty on that roof.

He checked on Rosie but she was still sound asleep, clinging to her fluffy giraffe.

After a quick shower and a shave he bumped into the doctor, whose face looked as if an elephant had been sleeping on it.

“Morning, Sherlock. Slept well?”

“Better than you as it seems.” It was a lie. In fact, Sherlock had barely slept at all.

John scratched his head. “Yeah. Got two pints more than I should have,” he mumbled. “Will take care of Rosie now. She’ll go to daycare.”

Sherlock nodded. John had a shift at the clinic, starting at nine. How he was going to survive that after two more or less sleepless nights was beyond him. But as a doctor and a soldier, John was used to short nights.

What would _he_ be doing all day? Sherlock wondered when he sat down on his kitchen chair after filling the kettle. Check on the progress in 221B? Well, at least he could have tea with Mrs Hudson. Or stroll through the streets of London. Perhaps Lestrade would have a case. Perhaps Mycroft wanted some company.

The thought made him feel… weird. Why? Hadn’t he and Mycroft practically reconciled even before going to Sherrinford? In these moments before the patience-grenade had sent him and John out of the window and torn his flat to pieces? Hadn’t there been gentleness, and fondness? This was his _brother_ for God’s sake. Mycroft had to have gone through some serious trouble at work after the disaster with Eurus, and he was certainly not feeling cheerful about the horrors he’d had to witness in the prison. He would certainly appreciate Sherlock reaching out to him.

And yet the sheer thought of facing him felt like biting on tinfoil. It made his synapses frizzle. It made him want to bang his head against the wall and he didn't know why.

Or perhaps he did but he didn't want to acknowledge it. What had become of the man of logic and reason, of science and cool?

“Fucking hell,” John interrupted him, the newspaper in his hand.

Sherlock had not checked his phone yet. “What’s wrong?”

“I’d have thought your brother would keep the lid on this. But it seems that one of the fired guards talked to the press.”

Sherlock swallowed when he saw the headlines. _‘Imprisoned killer causing havoc in secret institution.’_ and _‘”She killed my sister.’”_

 _Great…_ “I need to go see Mycroft. In a few hours,” he added, figuring that his brother would be very busy with taking revenge on certain people now. “Damn…,” he mumbled then. “Our parents will read that, too…” The parents who still thought that their daughter had died as a child...

“Oh fuck.” John gaped at him.

Well said indeed… They would come to London and they would come today. And they would not be pleased…

*****

Sherlock tried to not roll his eyes. “He did his best.”

“Then he’s very limited.”

Sherlock winced at Mummy’s rude words and the contemptuous tone in which they were spoken, and he didn’t have to look at Mycroft to know that his brother was hurt by these harsh and utterly unfair words.

He had expected the unavoidable confrontation with their parents to be bad but it was even worse than he had thought. They were bashing Mycroft for doing what he had thought was the only way to deal with the nasty secret that was Eurus Holmes. And it had not even been his decision; in fact, he had been nothing but a boy himself when Uncle Rudy had decided to lie to their parents and lock Eurus away for good. And that was exactly what had to happen to her and what had to be continued, and Sherlock was sure that she had hardly been craving their parents’ comfort for the past thirty years. He did remember a lot of child Eurus now and she had never paid any attention to Mummy and Father as they had seemed to be beyond her.

But he had to admit, as horrified he was by what she had done, he did feel kind of sorry for her. She had been born like this and she had hardly been prone to change under her living arrangements – alone in a glass cell, only used for government purposes. No human contact, no fresh air, no life. It had been necessary and their parents would eventually understand that. Of course they demanded to meet her, and even though Mycroft told them that it made no sense, he would give in and bring them to her. And they would see. They would never get through to her.

But perhaps there was a way to make her feel a bit better. She might not deserve it. But he had told her that she wasn’t lost anymore when he had found her in Musgrave. Yes, he had done it to save John but he had felt pity for her. She could never be allowed to run free but she didn’t have to be all alone anymore. At least he could try to make a difference for her. It would placate their parents and this would help Mycroft.

Big brother had tried to look nonchalant and superior when he had asked Sherlock in – the parents had arrived only a minute earlier as Anthea had told him – but Sherlock had seen how exhausted and desperate he was feeling underneath his cool demeanour. He was not used to being in everybody’s bad books and yet he had certainly listened to harsh accusations from his colleagues for the compromised security of this prison he had always thought was completely secure, and now he, who had always been the golden son, had to hear that Mummy called Sherlock the ‘grown-up’, which could have only been a joke. It was hurting him and seeing him hurt did things to Sherlock that would have surprised him had he not realised that something fundamental yet indescribable had changed in him in regards to his brother during the previous days.

So mostly for Mycroft's benefit he promised their parents to visit Eurus first and see if she was amenable to it, to perhaps playing the violin together. Music would likely be the best way to make a connection with someone who refused to say a single word. The parents could join them at a later point and perhaps take over eventually as he did not see himself going to this island all the time for very long, especially if she went on refusing to speak. He did want to help her but he also knew himself too well. He did not like to be bored… He also wasn’t sure at all that there would be a chance to make Eurus part of their remarkably dysfunctional family but he would give it a try.

“I don't know how to thank you,” Mycroft said meekly when the parents had left, still shaken and behaving rather impolitely towards their older son but at least a little bit soothed.

Sherlock felt ashamed. He had not stepped in for his brother as thoroughly as he should have, and Mycroft had to know this. And still he was thanking him? Well, probably it had already been a large improvement to Sherlock's usual behaviour around him… A few days of being nicer to Mycroft had hardly made this undone. Nothing would do that. Like Sherlock, Mycroft had a perfect memory – even though Sherlock had conveniently erased or rather suppressed unwelcome memories as it seemed. His brother would always remember his awful manners. He had to do better.

He should have asked how Mycroft was coping – but his brother would brush it off and perhaps close up at the intrusiveness as well as silliness of this question. He should thank Mycroft for his bravery to try to sacrifice his life for a man he couldn’t even stand – but he would have only sounded clumsy and stupid. They just didn't have this kind of relationship. They were not used to being open with each other. Let alone affectionate. He didn’t know how to pull that off. But he had to try to make some sort of connection – he felt it with some urgency.

So when Mycroft bent down to pull some folders out of his briefcase, in all probability using work to distract Sherlock from the nasty – and in his eyes certainly embarrassing – scene with their parents, he asked, “More work?”

Mycroft sat down in his chair again. “Yes. Took it home last night but… wasn’t able to get a lot done.”

And Sherlock only now realised that not only John had gotten pissed last night. “They gave you a hard time,” he concluded, meaning Mycroft's colleagues and the PM. It felt embarrassing enough to state the obvious but Mycroft accepted his attempt at a conversation.

“They did, and I had it coming.”

What was it with them and feeling guilty all the time? Sherlock mused. Shouldn’t they be above all this crap? It didn't lead anywhere. It only made them feel miserable. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said, knowing it to be futile. If a stubborn Holmes wanted to feel responsible for other people’s decisions, they would do it.

Mycroft gave him a wry smile. “Well. They should have obeyed my orders. But I should have made sure they do.”

“Mycroft, it might shock you but you can’t be everywhere at the same time,” Sherlock said dryly. “You are busy enough with running the country and keeping my sorry behind out of trouble.”

His brother shot him a surprised look. Then he shook his head with the saddest smile Sherlock had ever seen. “If I actually ran the country, it wouldn’t be in such a mess… And I’m afraid I’ve failed at protecting you big time as well.”

He didn't just mean the Eurus-confrontation. He was talking about John. Magnussen. Sherlock getting shot by Mary. “I’m a big boy, brother. In four years I’ll be forty. I should be able to look after myself by now. Can I help with anything?” Sherlock changed the subject before they both got even more depressed than they already were, pointing at the folders.

“Oh.” Mycroft looked thoroughly surprised.

Well, of course he was. Sherlock had not really offered his help on government matters very often before. Not once, actually. In fact, he had always refused to help Mycroft with cases in the past. It made him only feel more ashamed and angry at himself. What had he told Lestrade when he had sent him to look after Mycroft (and what kind of a dick move had that been anyway…)? He had said Mycroft was not as strong as he thought he was. In fact, Mycroft was very strong – usually. But he was also very sensitive; the past few days had proven that, cumulating in his meek behaviour towards their parents even though he would have had every right to yell at them for being treated so unfairly. So Sherlock's behaviour during all those years must have hurt him thoroughly, and Sherlock had not even seen it. A great detective he was. And an even greater brother...

“I don’t think so. This is about an agent who might be in captivity in Afghanistan but could also be a traitor.” Mycroft tapped onto the paper folder. “And I don’t want you to go there and search for him!” he added at once.

Sherlock nodded, taken aback by the intensity of his words. But was this surprising in the least? Didn’t he know by now how much his brother cared about him? And Mycroft had just literally watched him pointing a gun at his own head. Of course he didn't want to see him in danger so soon again. “But I could do some digging regarding his family and friends and his past. And John might be able to use his connections to Afghanistan. I guess you remember he’s been there.” He grabbed the folder. “Why don’t we let Anthea make a copy and... Oh, sorry, let me get that.” Papers and photographs had slipped out and fallen onto the floor.

Sherlock bent down to pick the stuff up – and then his eyes widened in utter surprise as he glanced at a photograph that was showing a young man, lying on a messy bed with his face buried in the pillows, a mop of curly black hair forming some sort of dark halo. Apparently he was sleeping, and he was sleeping in the buff, his plush bottom on display for everybody to look at, due to the position of his legs even a hint of pink visible between those two creamy-white globes.

It was a picture taken in a room he remembered all too well – the dark-grey walls, the edge of what he knew had been a poster of the periodic table. It was a photograph of a much younger Sherlock in their parents’ home. A naked, exposed Sherlock.

His brother made a pained, strangled noise when he saw what was now slipping out of Sherlock's shaking hand, and Sherlock looked up to see Mycroft's eyes bulge out of their sockets in shock, his face as pale as the bedsheets on that photograph.

For a moment, neither of them said anything or moved. Then Sherlock turned to leave, wobbly on his feet, croaking something he later couldn’t remember, and left Mycroft's office, shaken to the very core.


	2. Chapter 2

He had a hard time believing his eyes. Looking at the feed from the camera above his front door, his hand clamping around his phone, Mycroft was holding his breath. Literally. He couldn’t believe that Sherlock had really come here. But what for? Probably to demand an explanation, even though the evidence must have spoken loud and clear, in fact _screaming_ , ‘Pervert!’

Because that’s what he was. Certainly in Sherlock's eyes and definitely in his own. What sane individual lusted after his own baby brother? And had done so for two full decades? Of course it had started innocently enough with caring deeply about the baby Sherlock had been, a cute, beautiful baby that was hardly ever crying but rather watching everything and everybody with those mercurial, ever curious eyes. The chubby boy that Mycroft had been at this point had fallen for this fragile creature at once, and he had loved to bury his face in the dark curls of the warm little bundle, breathing in his sweet scent. Sherlock had saved him, the boy who never fit in, from a life in total isolation and loneliness. His fondness of his little brother had only grown with every year, and young Sherlock had clearly returned the sentiment, learning whatever he could from the brother who had seven years on him, if it was riding, playing the violin or building a mind palace.

Never in his life would Mycroft have imagined to develop feelings of a totally inappropriate kind for him. And perhaps it wouldn’t have happened – even though it seemed unlikely – if Mycroft had seen him growing into a man. But at this point, he had long left his childhood home and hardly ever come back to visit. Not because he hadn’t missed his brother – his parents not so much. But he had simply not had the time to go all the way up there frequently. He had been busy building his unique position in the government. Making connections. Finding the weak spots of everybody important – not essentially to blackmail, unlike people like Magnussen, but to influence and act accordingly if necessary. A shady position for a man who felt at home in the shadows and who had quickly got accustomed to enjoying the power he was gaining step by step.

Sometimes, in exceptionally busy periods, he had almost forgotten he even had a family. Sometimes, when he had been at home in his London flat at the weekends, his heart had hurt at the thought of having more or less abandoned his brother. He had never thought about Eurus – if he had not needed her assistance for government matters. Eurus had never been in his heart, and she had always known that. And Mycroft was well aware that she had wanted him to die from Sherlock's hands for exactly that reason. He had always preferred Sherlock over her and it must have seemed like the perfect ending for him. It must have thrown her off the wagon quite impressively when Sherlock had refused to shoot him.

Mycroft didn’t think that she had deduced what he had begun to feel for his brother when he had finally come home for the first time in almost two years for the Christmas directly prior to Sherlock's sixteenth birthday. If she had known this, she would have gleefully revealed this juicy piece of news during her game in Sherrinford. But Mycroft had been hiding this shameful secret for all this time and not even Sherlock had ever suspected it.

Until he had – in a state of total exhaustion, depression and drunkenness – managed to somehow put one of the pictures he should have never taken, let alone kept for twenty years, into a work folder. It was extra ironic that the agent in question had been found only an hour later, alive but injured, being completely innocent of what Mycroft had suspected him to be guilty of – a traitor. He had hardly registered this when Anthea had told him. When Sherlock had been gone, he had just slumped against his desk. If he had been feeling bad after the events of Sherrinford, the harsh words from his colleagues and that nasty conversation with their parents already, it had been nothing compared to feeling embarrassed, exposed and totally shattered then.

He had excused himself early, knowing that he would not be able to stay at the office, let alone do any productive work. If he had not felt number and more fatalistic by the minute, he would have probably had a mental breakdown.

He could still have that after the conversation – or rather: confrontation – with Sherlock. It amazed him that his brother had not just called or texted him to ask if he had gone crazy. How he could dare take such a picture of him.

Well, Sherlock wouldn’t have needed to be a genius to figure out what that meant. It was astonishing that little brother had felt the wish to talk to – or probably rather yell at – him in person. And what was he supposed to say to the inevitable accusations, which would all be accurate and well deserved? He was finished. If he had owned a gun, perhaps he would have given Eurus what she had wanted after all, just without Sherlock's ‘assistance’ – a dead older sibling. Instead he had downed two drinks in quick succession and subjected himself to the hottest shower he had ever taken and then dragged himself to his living room to roll into a ball on the couch until he had heard the doorbell.

With his feet feeling as if they were made of granite, Mycroft dragged himself to the door to let his brother in, feeling as if he was walking towards his own execution.

*****

Sherlock had expected Mycroft to look bad, much worse than he already had when they had parted, but his grey face and hopeless eyes still shocked him. He did wonder why. Of course Mycroft had to feel thoroughly humiliated and ashamed, and he had to expect the worst from this conversation. For about two decades his brother had apparently been in love with him, and Sherlock couldn’t even imagine how he had been feeling about this, especially considering Sherlock’s trademark ghastly behaviour towards him. And now his well-kept secret had blown up due to his own human error and it had to kill him.

“Hello, brother,” Sherlock said, trying not to shiver too much. “Can I come in?”

Mycroft simply nodded and made a step backwards, his shoulders hanging, everything about his appearance screaming ‘defeat’, and it was just so utterly wrong to see him like this, his usually so elegant, impeccable and aloof big brother. Mycroft was supposed to be strong and in charge, not hopeless and depressed, but here they were.

Sherlock took off his coat and threw it over a chair next to the door. He felt so nervous that he could barely stand still. And what he had to tell Mycroft shouldn’t be said in a hallway. “Can we… sit down?”

Mycroft nodded again and led the way, avoiding eye contact with him. None of them spoke until they were both seated in an armchair with a two-metre distance between them, both holding a glass.

It was not Mycroft's first drink, Sherlock noticed. His brother had showered and his cheeks were clean shaven, but he had obviously spent too much time under the hot spray, unwilling to leave the cocoon of hot water and steam and face his own thoughts and guilt again. He had been lying on the couch – the marks on his face gave it away.

Sherlock should have come with a plan but how did anyone prepare for such a conversation? He realised he was not able to begin it, and he was very grateful that Mycroft eventually broke the heavily tense silence.

“Go ahead already,” he said very quietly. “Tell me what a depraved pervert I am.”

“Do you really think that’s why I’ve come here? To accuse you?” It was a stupid question but hey, Mycroft had taught him to do deductions. How could he still be missing that this was not what Sherlock had on his mind?

Mycroft shook his head. “How could you not? It’s… nothing to be proud of, is it. It must repulse you to know how I lusted over you and sort of abused you even by taking these pictures. When you were sixteen.” He rubbed his face. “It was in the summer after that Christmas I finally returned home after such a long absence. I got confused by your… beauty and wit and…”

“Wit?” It was Sherlock's turn to shake his head in disbelief. “I was a horrible brat. Arrogant and full of myself and totally wired all the time. Snapped at everybody who dared speak to me. Mummy was at the end of her tether with me. And I do remember very well how I treated _you_.” Why ever had things changed so much between them? There had been a time when they had been close. He had admired Mycroft so much. And his brother had adored him. Probably nothing had really actually happened. _Life_ had happened. Mycroft had gone away, leaving him behind with their overprotective mother, their nice but way-too-normal and rather weak father and lots of imbeciles. Had he resented Mycroft for going away to get a life? Probably. Sherlock had lashed out at him that Christmas. And definitely during that summer when Mycroft had visited for a full week.

Mycroft smiled in a way that made Sherlock’s heart clench. “Perhaps I was always a sucker for pain. It did pain me that you were so cold and indifferent towards me. But it actually helped me cover the feelings I had developed for you.”

Had they ever changed? Certainly not. He would have hardly mixed up the photograph with this work-related folder otherwise. Mycroft had loved him all this time. Which made all his awful actions towards his older brother all the more vile. Sherlock might not recall everything he had done in his childhood; even now there were large gaps, but he certainly remembered every bloody action he had taken against his brother as a more or less young adult. And Mycroft had never fought back. He might have shown his disapproval and gotten bitchy, but Sherlock supposed that his brother had even embraced his nastiness. Not only to keep his secret but because he had thought he deserved it. A rightful punishment for his inappropriate feelings. Or so he thought.

“I… When I left Whitehall, I just… I didn’t know what to think. I was… shocked.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “Of course you were. I’m sorry. I can’t even say how sorry I am for having bothered you with something so unspeakable.”

Sherlock went on talking as if Mycroft had said nothing at all. “I found myself walking towards Baker Street.” His head had been spinning. His thoughts had been a whirlwind of chaos, the shockingly crude picture had popped up in his mind’s eye constantly. But what had been even more prominent had been the memory of this – so far – inexplicably loaded moment in Sherrinford. And when he had turned around and gone the other way instead of stepping into the ruins of his flat that did not feel like home at all anymore – and not just because it looked even more chaotic than Sherlock's soul and even his mind palace had become in the light of this unexpected revelation – he had understood what had troubled him before he had gone to see Mycroft at his office and had troubled him for a long while before that.

“I realised that 221B wasn’t my home anymore. It can be rebuilt but it will never be the same, because I am not the same anymore. It all went down the gutter, long before this bloody grenade exploded.” Sherlock knew he would have a very hard time to find the right words, especially in the presence of the hurt, self-loathing man that was his big brother. He was so inexperienced in voicing his feelings after all. “First it was John. He left in more than one way. And he will never come back. We forgave each other but… our friendship will never return to what it was. It’s not possible after everything that happened. I did become friends with Mary – and then I unwillingly caused her death. My early childhood turned out to have been an illusion, and no, I don't blame you for that. Molly might still be my friend when she’s gotten over that phone call but it will never be the same again, either. I had not even realised that I was living such a comfortable life until it all fell apart.” It had not only happened recently. It had begun with his jump off the rooftop but so much had happened since then that he had basically not had a moment of true peace to reflect all the changes, and then, after Sherrinford, there had finally been an abrupt stop to all the madness, the noise had vanished and suddenly there had been silence. But what was left? Ruins in more than one way.

Mycroft was listening to him closely, having seemingly lost a bit of his tension at least. “Nothing was easy for you since you left to take care of Moriarty’s network. But I’m sure you will be fine once Baker Street is as good as new.”

He didn’t get it. “It may be, but _I_ won’t. I got so many cracks.” The scars on his back and his chest were just the visible reminders of those years. “I will never be the same man again. Neither will the people I’ve called my friends. But I realised that… I will still always have one constancy in my life. You.”

Mycroft stared at him. “Yes. I will constantly leer after you. My feelings for you never changed, Sherlock. I…”

“Good. Because… I think… I’ve fallen in love with you.” When had it happened? He didn’t know. But he was sure that these feelings had been there for quite some time – perhaps even for nearly as long as Mycroft had loved him. He had not realised it. Not noticed them. But hidden beneath the resentments and the troubles of their brotherly relationship, they had been there, biding for the right time, and it had come now. He had begun to understand that the moment he had seen the photograph and it had disturbed him, and it might still scare him now, but he knew it was true.

Now his brother shot up from his chair. “How can you say that? That’s madness. Oh god… Don’t make me such _hopes_!”

Sherlock stood up as well. “I mean it. That was what I felt in Sherrinford. When you finally lowered your shields. When you stupidly thought I’d shoot you. I’d never have. How could you even think that? Yes. I was a bastard towards you. For ages. But… we had become closer again.” Years ago when they had been planning his mission. And right before the sodding grenade had exploded. He had shown Mycroft that he cared about him during this absurd ‘Lady Bracknell’ discussion. And Mycroft had understood. He must have had. And then, in Sherrinford, he had still thought Sherlock would sacrifice him without so much as flinching. A testament to how much Sherlock had fucked up their relationship for decades.

He chose to drop this matter for now. “Do you like to suffer so much that you don’t want to be happy?”

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. “Happy? With you? You can’t mean that. You’re just confused now; you suffered so much. Things will get better again and then…”

Sherlock couldn’t help it any longer. He closed the distance between them with two long steps and grabbed Mycroft by the shoulders. “Don’t tell me what I want or don't want. Forget this stupid guilt. You didn’t act on your feelings when I was a silly, always sulking boy, and that was good as it wouldn’t have gone down well. But there’s no reason to not act on them now.”

His words were braver than he actually felt. He did still feel anxious and scared by considering this to happen. Whatever ‘this’ actually consisted of. Did he really want to get physically intimate with Mycroft after not feeling this urge once in his life? Or would he be content with what other people called ‘cuddling’? Did Mycroft want either of this? Or would his brother be satisfied by just looking at him, like he had looked at his stolen token and God knew how many other similar photographs for twenty years? Would Mycroft really want to touch and caress him and make love to him? Or would fantasising about feeling his smooth, soft, albeit aged skin forever be enough for him?

“There are a million reasons,” Mycroft whispered, but his hands were sneaking around Sherlock's waist while he was speaking, and the touch felt even better than Sherlock had expected, making the famous butterflies starting to dance in his stomach.

“Yes. All this crap about being illegal and taboo. When has either of us ever cared about that?” Sherlock had personally killed and basically broken nearly every law under the sun. Mycroft had certainly gotten people killed for the sake of the nation. Neither of them was an innocent angel. And neither of them was a ‘normal’ man who gave a damn for the conventions of the goldfish.

“You will hate me for it,” Mycroft said full of conviction but he didn’t let Sherlock go.

Sherlock shook his head, grabbing his brother’s shoulders firmer. “You know about my inexperience but I can guarantee you that I won’t ever hate you.”

“You should. You should hate me for taking these pictures. You were sleeping. And I… knew that was all I could ever have. It was wrong.”

“Consider yourself forgiven.”

Mycroft grimaced. “I know about your generous forgiveness. I never approved of it.”

“That was a low blow.” He was talking about John and Mary. “And you can’t compare that anyway. They hurt me. They had their reasons but they did. Do you plan to hurt me?” Mycroft had certainly not hurt him by taking pictures of him. Well, it might have been a bit not good but Sherlock did understand it, and in the light of everything he had gone through in his life since then, it really wasn’t a big deal.

“Never. But I still might involuntarily do it by -…”

And now Sherlock had enough of dealing with his stubborn, guilt-ridden brother, finally fully realising what an utter waste of time feeling guilty actually was. He shut him up with a clumsy kiss, and after some gasping and struggling and shivering, Mycroft pulled him in for an embrace so tight that Sherlock could barely breathe and kissed him back, and it just felt right.

*****

Mycroft was alone again but it felt as if a lifetime had passed since he had seen Sherlock on the screen. He could still feel Sherlock's lips on his and the pressure of his fingers against his hand.

They had ended up on his couch – or rather: Sherlock had guided him there when his knees had gotten embarrassingly weak. But this had been the most unheard thing that had happened to him in his life, and that surely said something.

Sherlock had kissed him. Sherlock had suggested being… lovers.

It was… impossible? Too good to be true? Simply wrong? His biggest wish coming true?

Could he trust Sherlock in this? Sherlock, volatile and changeable as he was. And above all, little brother clearly had been afraid of his own feelings for him, and where had they even come from? How had Mycroft missed this? But Sherlock had obviously missed it himself. Until Sherrinford. Wouldn’t it be the epitome of irony if the ordeal of Eurus’ games had not only not resulted in Mycroft's death but in giving him what he had so desperately craved? Sherrinford, meaning to be his end, instead proving to be the catalyst for love.

But had he really ever wanted to act on his feelings instead of just pining after the forbidden fruit that was his baby brother? He had never even imagined that this possibility existed so after all this time it was hard to tell. Was he even ready to go all the way, to turn fantasy into reality? If someone longed for something so much for so long – could they even deal with finally getting it granted? And Sherlock, the virgin. Would he really want this? And what if he found out after trying it that it disgusted him. How were they supposed to deal with each other after that?

It was a huge risk in so many ways – being illegal. Being found out about by Sherlock's friends. Their parents, God forbid. They could lose everything.

And still Mycroft wanted to take this risk.

Sherlock would come back the next evening. And they would take baby steps. For the sake of both of them and their brotherly relationship. Because Mycroft would never forgive himself for scaring Sherlock off forever. Or for doing anything his brother didn’t really want.

Getting Sherlock's love was a miracle, and a man like Mycroft Holmes didn't believe in miracles.

But he supposed that for once in his life, he had to let go of reason and listen to his heart. That Sherlock was willing to do that too was the single most amazing thing to have happened to him, and it was still very hard to believe that he could have this.

And still, despite all his worries and doubts, he caught himself smiling like the fool in love that he had been for twenty bloody years.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stretched his limbs beneath his blanket. He had slept like a baby and was feeling awake and far from being depressed. When had he last done that? The ‘why’ was easier to answer. Mycroft. The prospect of happiness. With nobody else than the most dangerous, most intelligent man in Britain. He would finally find out who his brother really was behind all his masks and shields. And he would sooner or later be allowed to peel off all his layers of posh clothing and explore the handsome man that was hiding under them. If this wasn’t a reason to feel refreshed and full of hope, what was?

He got out of bed with great energy, eager to text his brother to see how he was doing. Hopefully he had slept well and not spent the night indulging in second thoughts that Sherlock would have to erase then. With a kiss, preferably. He had loved kissing Mycroft. And so far, there had only been tame kisses. The real ones were still waiting for them. Among all the other treats that lovers got to share.

When he was about to open the door of the guest room he was occupying, he heard voices from the living room. John. Rosie’s excited gurgling. And… Molly… Oh dear…

His heart sank. Why had she come here? To take Rosie, probably. But John would have gladly brought his daughter to her instead – Molly never stayed with her in this flat. The deduction was easy. She had come to see _him_.

It was tempting to hide in his room until she gave up and left. But his bladder told him that this was not an option. And when he went to the bathroom, they would hear him and there would be no escape. And he did know he couldn’t avoid her forever. But he was not looking forward to this conversation. Especially as John would soon leave for his shift at the clinic. So they would be alone.

He closed his eyes in agony and then he sighed and grabbed some fresh underwear and a shirt to take it to the bathroom. At least he would get to enjoy a long, hot shower before he had to face inquisition and disappointment and tearful puppy eyes if he was especially unlucky.

Ah. The day had begun too nicely. He had the strong feeling that it would soon go downhill…

*****

When he entered the kitchen after a dragged-out shower, a shave and brushing his teeth, John was nowhere to be seen. Molly was busy feeding Rosie with a spoon, and the baby gurgled happily when she saw him. And Molly’s cheeks blushed ever so slightly when she wished him a good morning, and Sherlock wondered why he had not just walked in with a stubble, morning breath and reeking of night-sweat. But it would have probably not made a difference. This woman had seen him in the worst conditions and – even though she had once slapped him in the face at such an occasion – it had never put her off. She was obsessed by her feelings for him.

And she didn’t even really know him. She loved an image, some kind of deity, a man larger than life, that she had put onto a pedestal, which was why she had been so angry at his drug use that had been meant to mislead Magnussen. She had turned away from him after that, spending more time with John and Mary, and after Mary’s death, she had taken John’s side when the doctor had not wanted to see him anymore. To punish him – for his misdeeds and ongoing ignorance towards her advances over the years? Probably. Sherlock had never seriously thought about that until now.

It had not cured her from her feelings though, and when she’d had the opportunity, she had indulged herself by forcing him to admit a love he did not feel. And somehow she had, despite John telling her about the true circumstances of this blasted phone call, convinced herself that he had only spoken out a hidden truth.

And when she looked up to him now, attending to the baby, the hope in her eyes made him feel truly miserable. When had he become the caregiver for everyone? For John. For Mary. Now he was even supposed to keep up with his sister to placate their parents. But he would do that for Mycroft and that was fine. Doing things for Mycroft was his new mission, and his brother had not even asked for it. He never would. And that’s exactly why it would feel sweet to do it.

 _This_ was not sweet though. It was pathetic. And to go the extra mile, Molly took Rosie out of her high chair to take her on her lap now in a highly suggestive gesture that said, _‘We could have that, too. We could start a family.’_ She had made an effort with her clothing and her hair; she was even wearing lipstick and was that eyeliner? Her efforts were for nothing, of course, and dammit – she should know that and he was sure that the rational part of her did, but she simply chose not to acknowledge the futility of trying to impress him.

He wanted to flee but he knew it would not help. And suddenly all the energy with which he had woken up had left him, and he felt exhausted and weak.

“John’s already left,” she said, finally breaking the silence, which had only been disturbed by the quiet noises the baby had been producing.

Sherlock nodded. He had no idea what to say. There had been a time when Molly had felt like a true friend to him, when he had even felt bad about always using her for his purposes. Now they were strangers, and he felt seriously awkward and he just didn't want to be in this situation.

Once more, it was Molly who began to talk after shooting him side glances for a minute. “So… You have a sister.”

“It seems so, yes,” Sherlock rumbled, his voice hoarse. “Not a very nice woman. But that’s us Holmeses…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. _You_ are…”

“...not nice, and we both know it. Listen, Molly…”

“You _meant_ it!” she flared. “I know you’re afraid of your feelings as it’s so foreign to you but we can take it easy and just spend time together and get to know each other better and then you’ll see how great we are for each other.”

There were a million things to say to this and yet nothing. Sherlock could feel a migraine creeping up on him. Everything she had just said was true – for him and Mycroft. This was how things would go. And there was no way in hell that he could have ever had this with anyone else. “We have nothing in common, Molly,” he eventually said, avoiding her pleading looks. “My sister didn’t want to help me get in touch with my deeply hidden feelings or something of the kind. I don’t _have_ them.” At least not for _her_... “She just wanted to torture me. And so did _you_.” Why had she not just said those blasted words? Instead of forcing them out of him first? Ah yes. Because the opportunity had been too good to leave it alone… And now of course it was his fault. Again. Hadn’t he seen it coming...

“What?” Molly gaped at him, her arms cramping around the baby. “I know what I heard. You meant it. You’re just a coward. We could have this, too!” She gestured at Rosie, who was looking from one to the other, obviously close to starting to cry.

How predictable… “I will never have this. Never wanted it. Perhaps… you could start dating John?” Sherlock suggested, hopefully. “I mean, you did already get closer and…”

Molly shot up from her chair. “You’ll never learn it. Love can stare you in the eye and you don’t see it. I pity you.” She grabbed the bag that had been standing next to her chair, certainly containing Rosie’s supplements.

“Don’t bother.” Sherlock had seen love and he was very willing to act on it. But not with the woman he watched leaving the kitchen now with a sigh and a frown.

His life had been turned around. Again and again. Everything that had happened since he had collided with Moriarty had piled up to mess it all up – all his friendships, his enjoyment of his work. All he wanted was to be grounded again. To cling to an anchor, a reliable, secure one.

And he knew just the man for that, and he wanted to see him as soon as possible. This couldn’t wait until tonight.

*****

It had not been easy to focus on his work. Not at all. Mycroft had read some reports but his thoughts had strayed to Sherlock every few seconds.

What an unexpected development. One he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved. Well, he knew very well he did not. He had taken advantage of Sherlock all those years ago by stealing those pictures. He had never dared touch him, oh no. He had not sunk that low. But would he have if he could have been sure that Sherlock wouldn’t wake up to yell at him? He surely hoped he would have not. But he had felt as if he had been living in a fever dream that summer. His obsession with the beautiful young man his baby brother had developed into had been abysmal. He had needed to possess him so badly, no matter how guilty and dirty it had made him feel. He had known very well that he would never have Sherlock so he had taken the only thing he could have – pictures to swoon over, and, crudely spoken, to wank over. He had made more than one copy of them of course, and he had developed them in Sherlock's own dark room, ironically, when Sherlock had been away for a doctor’s appointment.

Now he had burnt them all. When Sherlock had been gone the previous evening, he had made sure to destroy every shred of them after staring at them one last time. Not just because it had always been wrong to have them. Not just because the sheer thought of how Sherlock had discovered the one had made him feel deeply ashamed once more, despite the recent developments. How much worse would it have been if someone else had seen them? The PM? Lady Smallwood? It was simply the only decent and reasonable thing to do – burn them to ashes, literally and metaphorically. Their relationship had been dead for so long. And what was hopefully about to rise from the ashes of their long-gone brotherly bond should not be tainted with the existence of these photographs, of these old days of pining and longing and literally beating off over them.

He had felt cleansed after destroying the pictures. He would always remember them anyway, and if he was really, really lucky, he would soon see these long limbs, glowing skin and all the treats for real. Would be allowed to actually touch and caress and love this body. He needed them to take their time as he wanted Sherlock to be sure he really wanted this. Because once the taboo was broken, there would be no way back. And he would have lied if he had denied that he was shivering in anticipation. But what counted the most was Sherlock's well-being. He would never do anything his brother wasn’t comfortable with. He had used him in a way when he had taken those photographs. He had absolutely no wish to do that one more time.

The knock at the door startled him so much that he almost overturned his cup of meanwhile cold coffee. “Yes?”

Anthea poked her head in. “Lady Smallwood’s here to see you, sir. Shall I send her in?”

 _No. Send her to the moon…_ He wasn’t surprised about Anthea’s sympathetic smile. “Yes,” he said, suppressing a sigh. Would there be more shouting about Sherrinford? Or worse – would she try to play nice again?

When the lady swept into his office, he knew it was the second alternative and dammit – he would have preferred more yelling… The tight skirt, the not completely closed blouse… It was embarrassingly clear...

He had once made the mistake to meet her for a drink. Not because he had wanted them to have a ‘date’. But Sherlock had been ghastly to him once more and he had felt lonely. Pathetic, really.

Of course it had been a disaster. Once they had been seated at their table in this intimate little restaurant, she had not left any doubt whatsoever about her intentions. She had nudged his calf with her bare foot. She had batted her eyelids at him. Shown her daring décolleté. Tried to grab his hand.

Mycroft had felt like getting up and running away. But then the waiters had had a change of shift and instead of the attractive young woman who had served their first drinks, a very handsome waiter had appeared, clearly gay and, miracles never cease, he had shown some barely concealed interest in him. So Mycroft had flirted with the man in no discreet ways, smiling at him, asking about the restaurant and a certain drink in a way that had also left no doubt, and it had ended with Elizabeth storming out. Of course he had not taken the man home and he would never go there again – his days of sexual exploration to distract himself from his desires for his brother had been over for twenty years as they had been futile – but he had made his point. And he had expected to make himself an enemy, but she had not shown her disappointment and humiliation openly when they had met at the office after her vacation. Until the Sherrinford debacle, when she had been at his throat even more than the PM. But now she was here to make up for that. And, in the long run, make _out_ with him? God. He would never understand _people_ …

He got up as he was used to being polite. “Lady Smallwood.”

“Mycroft. I wanted to check on you. We’ve not been… very nice to you lately.” Her voice was positively sultry.

“That’s fine,” he said suavely. “My handling of the situation had lacked quite a bit. Is there anything else I can help you with? I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.” Which was not true but she did not know that, did she.

Her expression turned sour. “I… I thought we could…”

The knock at the door startled them both this time. “Yes?” Mycroft said, eager to call in whoever it was who was searching for his company now. It could not get any worse.

Anthea apologised for interrupting, and one had to know her as well as Mycroft did to notice how much she liked doing it. “Your brother is here. Shall I…?”

“Oh, by all means. He’s a bit early for our appointment but…”

The lady turned to leave, and she met Sherlock right in the door. “Mr Holmes. Here to nick all the biscuits?” Her voice was dripping with aggression and contempt.

“No. Just to wreck my brother’s last nerve,” he said, coolly.

“Well, do your worst,” hissed the lady, and Mycroft mused that she would probably not try to get into his pants again.

“Just at the right moment,” he greeted Sherlock after the door had been closed by Anthea.

“I should have asked if you have time but you might have said no,” Sherlock said, closing the distance between them, and he lightly put his hand onto Mycroft’s right forearm, sending sparks of electricity through Mycroft's whole body.

“I wouldn’t,” Mycroft assured him, and then he wrapped his arms around his baby brother, buried his face in his thick, black curls, breathed in his scent, and felt like he was embracing the world.

*****

‘ _My brother, the unknown entity,’_ Sherlock thought when they sat down on Mycroft's generous couch with a drink in their hands. What would he find when he explored him further and further – this handsome man most people who had ever met him feared. He had seen strangers avoid him when they were about to cross his path. The Iceman. A lizard to the world. But never to him. Mycroft had always shown some kind of emotion towards him, no matter how much he had denied to possess any. Sure, many times it had been disappointment and exaggeration – and hurt, who did Sherlock want to fool? But hadn’t he always known that Mycroft would do basically everything for him? He had sent him on that death mission though – surely because he had feared Sherlock was about to become another Eurus. He had been livid after waking up from the drug stupor Sherlock had put him into and having to watch him kill Magnussen. But of course Mycroft would have gotten him out if not for the Moriarty video. Mycroft had always cared. But he had also done a bit more, hadn’t he…

“You said there were more pictures,” he said when they had both sipped at their brandy. “Care to show them to me?” But he realised only a second later that of course Mycroft had let them disappear. “Ah. You could have waited.”

Mycroft smiled wryly at him. “It was insane to keep them. Or do them in the first place. What if they had not fallen at your feet but Lady Smallwood’s?”

Sherlock shuddered. “That old hag. So keen on getting into your pants. Well, you would have certainly been rid of her. Or she would have blackmailed you into -…”

“If you finish this sentence, I’m going to have to throw you out,” Mycroft threatened, and Sherlock grinned mischievously at him and rubbed Mycroft's inner thigh.

“Oh, would you really do that to me, big brother?” he asked, innocently, and smirked when Mycroft very obviously suppressed a moan.

“Playing unfair, little brother?” he retorted, but it didn’t sound very convincing.

Mycroft had made an effort with his appearance. Well, he always did, but in this extra-tight grey suit, he looked particularly tasty. His expensive eau de cologne had been applied with care, and he smelled delicious. He had taken off his jacket in the meantime and his light-blue shirt was clinging to his slim upper body quite fetchingly.

Sherlock, dressed in tight black jeans and a dark-red shirt, stressing his own assets of broad shoulders and plush bottom, had almost gotten high at Mycroft's appreciative looks when he had entered the house. “I’m not playing, brother mine,” he assured Mycroft now. “Just probing my new property.” He grabbed Mycroft's thigh a bit harder, and he was delighted to see that certain sparkle in those currently not-so-icy blue orbs.

“Your property I am now?” teased Mycroft, sounding not in the least offended, and Sherlock breathed a fake-coy ‘yes’.

It was fascinating. Knowing that Mycroft had worshipped his tokens he had secretly taken from him for all this time while admonishing him to grow up almost every time they met. That the brother who had more often than not regarded him with unconcealed exasperation had probably glanced at his backside and crotch and maybe also his neck and his cheekbones whenever Sherlock had not been paying attention. He had really been slipping to miss this. But of course Mycroft was the master of hiding his true feelings and he had certainly suppressed any inappropriate reactions when Sherlock had been in his presence for real – and not just his nude pictures. But…

“Did you ogle my arse in Buckingham Palace?” he smirked.

Mycroft gasped. “Of course not.” Had this been a wink?

“I believe you. Not.” Sherlock felt strangely giddy, sitting so close to his brother, his hand still on his thigh, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of his bespoke trousers.

That whole episode had not been his proudest moment. Irene had fascinated him. A challenge, a deserving opponent. But when she had tried to kiss him after he had saved her – which Mycroft had to know now as John had indirectly given it away in Sherrinford, but he had not mentioned it – he had backed away and simply sent her to the car that would bring her to the airport. When he recalled the scene with Mycroft in the ‘plane of the dead’ now, he wondered how he had been able to miss his brother’s jealousy. He had not only been angry about Sherlock betraying the country without even realising it. He had been hurt.

“I never wanted anything from Irene,” Sherlock said now, and Mycroft tightened his jaw for a moment.

“Hardly matters anymore, does it?”

“It never did,” Sherlock stressed, regretting to have brought this up at all. But damn – there was an entire ocean of touchy subjects. All those old resentments. The drugs. Twisting big brother’s arm. Not even mentioning drugging _him_ … Forgiving John (and Mary) for their violence against him. And on Mycroft's side? Even this whole ‘lusting after teenage Sherlock’ matter aside, which bothered him a lot more than it bothered Sherlock – all these lies about his childhood. Sure, it had been Sherlock who had decided to forget about Eurus and Victor, but even when he and Mycroft had prepared his mission, big brother had not deemed it necessary to mention their sister and her connection to Moriarty. Mycroft should have taken care of Eurus when Moriarty had targeted him, and he certainly knew that.

Would they be able to put all of this aside and start anew? When Sherlock saw Mycroft's frightened look now, he unconsciously nodded. Mycroft had deduced his thoughts of course, and he already feared to lose him before they had even really gotten started. Well, that was not going to happen.

Sherlock grabbed his brother’s chin and crashed their lips together in a kiss that quickly became everything but tame when Mycroft had overcome his initial surprise, and then their arms were around each other. It was weird but also very arousing to have Mycroft’s tongue pushing against his own and tasting him so intimately. Sherlock could feel Mycroft's caution, which was mingled with barely suppressed arousal and need, and his own cock was throbbing without even having been touched.

He could imagine how torn Mycroft was about finally living out what he had been fantasizing about for so long – even though he had certainly not imagined ever really experiencing this – and being reasonable about it, taking it slow so there would be no harm. Big brother was fighting with the man who wanted to be Sherlock's lover, bottom line. Hopefully, the lover within him would keep the upper hand. Sherlock had to make sure of that, taking things slow or not.

Sherlock found himself adjusting to the intimacy of the increasingly passionate kissing very well – much better than he had anticipated, given his lack of experience. He would respect Mycroft's need for slowness in this regard but just to make a point, he reached down to his brother’s crotch, finding something decidedly hard and shockingly big and rubbing it without shyness. He chuckled when Mycroft produced a strangled noise – something between a moan and a shocked gasp – against his mouth and quickly pulled away.

“Sherlock…”

“Apologies,” he said, insincerely, pulling him back in instantly. “Just had to make sure you are, you know, a real man.”

“Brat!”

“Why ever? I simply confirmed it. _Big_ brother indeed…”

Mycroft stared at him in wonder. “Oh, Sherlock. We’re going to have so much fun. But not tonight.”

“Spoilsport,” Sherlock said good-naturedly, knowing that Mycroft was burning for it, just as he was. “Oh well. At your pace, if I must.”

“Much obliged. I would be amenable to some more kissing though.”

Sherlock nodded. “I think that can be arranged.”

And for the next half an hour, he learned his brother’s taste and the texture of his tongue and lips inside out, storing every bit of data away for later use, cheekily fondling his brother’s left nipple through his shirt for most of the time, having his arse cheek squeezed from time to time when Mycroft couldn’t help it, and it was all most pleasant.


	4. Chapter 4

Slowly, Sherlock climbed the stairs. There was a heady, unpleasant smell in the air, the smell of renovation and dust, of working men’s sweat and burnt carpets. He could hear Mrs Hudson talk to a man upstairs, certainly one of the workers, despite the noise of machines and people yelling at one another.

He had not been at 221B since Sherrinford. The last time he had been in the process of coming here, he had turned around. It was really weird. This had been his home for so long, and when he had been away on his mission against Moriarty’s accomplices, he had dreamt about this place. About being back, sitting in his chair with his violin, John keeping him company, writing his blog.

And then he had come back and it had been nothing like that. He had been alone. John had been gone and then they had both gone through hell and back and his former best friend would never really return into his life. They had still not talked a lot. In fact, they had not had an in-depth conversation since before The Fall. Their friendship had just… withered. Perhaps not quite died but that was probably only a matter of time. The moment John met someone who could replace Mary in both his and Rosie’s life, the last nail would be hammered into that coffin. And even if he stayed alone, which was highly unlikely, he would never return to this place to live here. He would always just be a visitor.

And even Sherlock felt like one. A stranger in his own home.

He stepped through the door of what was left of his flat, and then Mrs Hudson discovered him and screeched his name, and a moment later he had an armful of fragile old landlady, dressed in one of her old-fashioned, light-pink dresses, smelling like Chanel No 5 and dust. He patted her back ever so gently, feeling ashamed that he had not bothered to speak with her for so long. She had always been on his side. Always believed in him and regarded him like a son. Perhaps she was the only true friend that was left for him – not counting Mycroft of course, who was so much more. It had been his sister who had done all this damage to this lady’s house, and he had hardly bothered to talk to her, and left it to her to get it rebuilt.

There was still chaos all around but the workers were busy, and at least most of the rubble had been cleared away. And wasn’t this his chair, sitting in the middle of the destroyed living room like a proud, albeit dusty monument? Ready for him to sit down in it again? Somehow the sight didn't cheer him up but made him feel even more misplaced in his own realm.

“Hello Mrs Hudson. Sorry I haven’t been here before.” He discreetly plucked a tiny piece of wood out of her grey hair.

She patted his arm with a smile, forgiving as always. “No worries. You’ve been through so much. You and our poor John.”

“And my brother,” Sherlock couldn’t help but correct her. After all, Mycroft had raced downstairs to get her out of the house when the flat had been blown up. And Sherrinford had hardly been a walk in the park for big brother, either. In fact, he had undoubtedly suffered the most in there and afterwards.

She looked up to him with surprise – which was not surprising at all, given Sherlock's past relationship with Mycroft. Then she nodded. “Of course. Come – let’s go into my flat and have tea.”

“Tea is never wrong,” he confirmed, and then they went downstairs arm in arm.

*****

“I’m really sorry about what happened to your house,” Sherlock said, warming his hands at the hot mug. At least 221A had not been harmed, apart from some minor cracks in the ceiling.

“Oh, it wasn’t your fault. I mean, you’ve done your best to damage it with shooting at the walls and these awful chemical experiments… But your sister finally succeeded.” Mrs Hudson smirked at him, and Sherlock was beyond grateful for the lightness she was showing him. But then she frowned. “I do think I need to engage a lawyer. The insurance doesn’t want to pay for the renovation.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Do not worry. I will make sure they do it.” He knew someone with lots of power and a very helpful attitude towards such people.

“Oh. You want to threaten them?” She seemed to be rather delighted at the prospect.

“Oh no. I’ll ask my brother to handle this. Or worse: his scary assistant…”

Mrs Hudson made wide eyes. “You mean this lovely young woman?”

“Never underestimate Anthea,” Sherlock said in a graven voice. “She’s dangerous.” He had received more than one thoroughly pissed-off look from this attractive lady over the years. Of course he had to admit that he had deserved each and every one of them…

“Not as dangerous as your sister though… Care for a ginger nut? Or a dozen?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” Sherlock winked at her. “Yes. Eurus is quite intimidating.” And he had promised to visit her. Well, he would see how this would go. His motivation to bond with her had even further decreased after beginning his decidedly not brotherly relationship with Mycroft, but to keep their parents away from his brother's throat, he should better at least try to play nice with her. He would ask Mycroft to arrange it.

“They are making progress up there, but I guess it will still be at least two weeks until you can move back in.”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s alright. I… I think I will ask my brother for a room to stay in.” Why had he not thought of this before? Why had Mycroft not offered it? Well, Mycroft was probably reluctant to have his self-control tested so quickly, having Sherlock under the same roof. And of course he thought Sherlock didn’t mind living with John. And he didn’t but…

Mrs Hudson looked surprised and a little sad. “It’s good to see you two are getting along better these days. From what John told me, he was very brave in this ghastly prison.”

“Yes, he really was. I’ve never been very nice to him. For a long time. I want to repair our relationship,” Sherlock said stiffly and took a ginger nut to nibble at it. Of course he wanted to do a lot more, including nibbling at the odd body part or two, but he could not tell anyone. Not even this woman, who was like a mother for him. She wouldn’t understand. Well, that was a small price to pay for being with a man who had, after a lifetime of estrangement, managed to get under his skin like nobody else before. And so far, they had barely touched each other’s actual skin… Soon. Mycroft wouldn’t keep him at arm’s length for much longer. His resistance was already crumbling, and Sherlock, the notorious virgin, had not had much to begin with. It was all most amazing, actually.

“And what about John?”

Sherlock looked up from his mug. Of course she would ask that. She could feel that he and John had been drifting apart, but she didn’t know half of what had happened. He had never told her about John’s violence during the Smith case, and he was sure that John had not mentioned it either. Who knew about it anyway, apart from Mycroft and Lestrade? Probably not Molly, either. Even though she had slapped him herself after all, and after their last conversation, she would have probably liked to place some serious blows as well… “Well, John will be glad to have his flat back to himself, and to Rosie of course. I don’t want to intrude for weeks.”

Now Mrs Hudson looked seriously sad. “Intrude. That’s what it feels to stay at his place? I thought you were best friends.”

“We were,” agreed Sherlock. “But… Life happened, you know. It’s just the way it goes if two people start living totally different lives. Like a young dad and widower and a free bachelor.” _It is what it is,_ he could have added, but he had begun to hate this sentence, which basically excused everything and made struggling to do better redundant. “Well, it depends on what my brother says. But since he’s at work all day, he will hardly notice that I’m there.” It felt wrong to lie to her but he should better get used to it.

Mrs Hudson nodded. “I’m sure he will be very happy that you ask him. He cares. I know I called him a ‘reptile’ not that long ago but he has always looked after you.”

Sherlock had winced at the ‘reptile’. John had told him about it, before they had gone to Sherrinford. It had felt wrong then and it felt even more wrong now. “He really is not.” He downed his tea and grabbed one last biscuit and got up. “I’d better get going. If there’s a client asking for me, just give me a call, please.”

The old lady patted his hand. “I will. Do you think… you and John will be good again?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Yes. Probably. But it will never be like old times again. He will never come back here to live with me.” And suddenly he wondered if _he_ would do that at all. He could help Lestrade very well while living with Mycroft. He could tell everybody who asked, which couldn’t be that many people, that he couldn’t afford the rent on his own any longer. The times of fame and clients piling in front of the door were over anyway. Since John had stopped blogging about Sherlock's cases, as he had rarely ever joined him at crime scenes for quite some time, let alone during cases for private clients, it had become very quiet on that front.

Mrs Hudson looked up to him, and he could see that she had not missed what he had been thinking about. “Just promise me that you won’t disappear like John did when you, you know, died.”

He pecked her on the cheek. “Never. I promise.” And then he left without another glance at the flat that had been his home for so long.

*****

“Thank you. That was very considerate of you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You seem surprised, brother dear. I did tell you I’d bring dinner.”

“You did.” Mycroft looked at the thick sandwiches appreciatively. Had he ever told Sherlock that he loved tuna salad? “Just saying it’s nice.”

They had sat down on the couch, a glass of wine in front of each of them on the table.

“What would you’ve had for dinner if you had been alone?” Sherlock asked before biting a hearty chunk off his sandwich.

“Well… I don't eat much when I come home.” Actually, he didn’t eat that much at all. He was way too busy during the day to go out and have an opulent lunch. He lived from coffee, the odd sandwich or dry biscuits. Pathetic, really… When had he last gone out for dinner? Well, it was not fun going out with himself. And he had never craved anyone’s company. Apart from Sherlock's, obviously. And now that this was an option, he hesitated to suggest it as the lid had to be kept firmly on their new relationship. Not only because of the incest aspect. It was better if everybody believed them to be at odds so they wouldn’t be identified as each other’s weak spot. On the other hand, Magnussen had tried to get through him by using Sherlock anyway. They would have to be careful, sure. But they could do that eventually. “Would you like to go out for dinner sometime?” he asked, seeing Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise.

Then the detective nodded. “Sure. Somewhere where nobody knows us.” He grimaced. “Well, I do have quite the recognisable face. But people forget quickly. I’m yesterday’s news anyway, and you have never been, you know, ‘news’.”

“Thanks a lot,” Mycroft smirked, not feeling offended. Sherlock was quite right. He had never been out for fame and fans. Unlike little brother. But yes. The former ‘hat detective’ had not been in the tabloids a lot lately. Well, apart from the Eurus-disaster, but this had been silenced very quickly. Everybody who could harbour feelings of revenge had been soothed. And paid… Of course no money in the world could bring back a loved one, but it had turned out that the sister of the governor’s wife had not been very close to her late sibling, and the Garridebs had not had any close family, let alone close friends.

Thinking of this day in hell made him frown, and of course Sherlock didn’t miss it. “It wasn’t your fault. And… While we are at this unpleasant subject – someone has promised our parents to go visit Eurus… Can you arrange that?”

Mycroft grimaced at the very idea, and at the memory of this awful conversation with their parents. “Sure. In two days?” He had put safety measures in place that not even Eurus would ever be able to overcome. Still he said, “You will be monitored every step of the way.”

Sherlock nodded. “Naturally. But I have the strong feeling that she has given up.”

“And she will probably remain unresponsive.” Eurus had still not said a single word after being incarcerated again.

“I figure. But I have to try so they won’t bite off your head. It’s still needed.”

Mycroft felt more touched at the fact that Sherlock wanted to visit Eurus for him than he wanted to admit. What could have been seen as betraying him – little sister had wanted to see him dead after all – was in fact a proof of Sherlock's affection for him. “What will it be needed for?" he asked, eager to change the subject, his tone as innocent as his look.

Sherlock gave him a grin that was rather predatory. “I could think of a thing or two. But why don't you use it for eating first, and then I would love some more kissing.” They had been snogging vigorously when Sherlock had arrived, but there simply couldn’t be enough kissing happening, and Mycroft couldn’t get enough of the sweetness of Sherlock's plush, soft lips.

“Agreed,” nodded Mycroft, and then they concentrated on their meal for the next few minutes.

*****

His brother’s heart was beating so fast… It’s erratic throbbing felt fascinating under Sherlock's palm.

They had finished their dinner and downed their wine, and then they had snuggled up on the couch, and their lips had found each other on instinct. Sherlock's hand was on Mycroft's chest, Mycroft’s was playing with Sherlock's scalp. Their mouths were so busy with each other that Sherlock could hardly imagine to ever stop kissing again.

But he had been so patient. Well, a little bit. He deserved a reward. And so his hand let go of the place above Mycroft's hammering heart to slide southwards, and his brother gasped into his mouth but let him go on until Sherlock's fingers found the throbbing bulge that was his lover’s erection beneath the posh trousers.

He started to rub it, and Mycroft moaned, making Sherlock so hard that he could have broken a window with what was trying to escape its confinements. Without thinking, he straddled Mycroft's lap, not ceasing to kiss him for a second, and searched and found friction while Mycroft's hands found his arse and started kneading his cheeks.

“S’too soon,” Mycroft mumbled but Sherlock increased his rubbing as a stubborn reply.

It was not. Mycroft had wanted this to happen for ages, and Sherlock was very sure that nothing would change his mind about this. He unzipped his trousers and his long, pink cock sprung free, and Mycroft moaned at the sight and then his hand was being wrapped around Sherlock's sensitive member. Sherlock could feel his eyes roll all by themselves at this touch and hurried to free Mycroft's deliciously large cock as well, relishing the feeling of velvety skin against his hand.

For a moment, Sherlock imagined watching them from an outsider’s point of view – two tall, well-dressed, embarrassingly panting men, groping each other’s cocks, and the thought made him giggle. Mycroft looked at him in surprise before he grinned at the sheer absurdity of this situation. The grin turned into a serious moan a second later, and then he was the first of them to spend all over Sherlock's busy hand, and Sherlock followed him instantly, making a total mess out of Mycroft's fancy trousers.

Giggling, he leaned forward so their foreheads touched, feeling light and almost drunk on all the hormones and the sentiment he was flooded with.

“That was rather messy,” Mycroft mumbled, his not-soiled hand rubbing up and down Sherlock's still clothed back.

“But very nice,” Sherlock insisted, earning himself a thoroug kiss.

“Yes. Very nice. Come. Let’s get cleaned up,” suggested the ever reasonable Mycroft, and Sherlock slid from his lap, a silly grin still pulling at the corners of his mouth.

*****

“No regrets, brother dear?” Sherlock raised his glass in a slightly ironic salute.

Mycroft answered his gesture and sipped at the twenty-year-old single malt whiskey. “None,” he admitted. One should have thought he was beating himself down internally at getting sexual with Sherlock so quickly. But perhaps he had used up all his guilty feelings over the past twenty years. And it could hardly be said that he had coerced his virgin- but decidedly adult brother into this horny-teenager-like encounter. It had been Sherlock who had taken advantage of the situation – in a most welcome way of course. No. Mycroft was not feeling guilty. He felt sated but still excited just by sitting next to his brother. And he could not wait to do more.

“Want to do some more pictures?” Sherlock teased him, and Mycroft blushed.

“That would not be very wise, little brother.” It had never been wise to do them, but at that time, he had been a low civil servant and nobody had ever heard of Sherlock. Now he was someone his enemies would love to see going down and Sherlock was, well, Sherlock Holmes.

“Ah, we can do them with our phones and delete them afterwards. After memorizing them, of course.”

That would certainly be an option. Mycroft felt rather dizzy at the prospect of an adult naked Sherlock, spread out on his bed for him, his cheeks slightly parted so he could see his -… He downed his whiskey as his ear tips got pink, and Sherlock giggled into his glass, having easily deduced his thoughts.

“Have I told you what horrible brat you are?” mumbled Mycroft, grinning when Sherlock laughed out loud.

“One should have thought you were used to that by now. I don't look the same, of course,” he added without a pause.

Mycroft was confused for a moment, but then he got what Sherlock meant. The scars he had brought home from his mission. The bullet wound he could thank Mary Watson for. “No,” he said slowly. “Most certainly not. You’re a grown man, not a boy, and you have bulked up delightfully since then.”

Sherlock gave him a look full of gratitude and affection, and it was in this moment that Mycroft realised that his brother truly loved him. The thought made his heart flow over with sentiment, and he swallowed hard.

For a few seconds, they shared a look that said it all, and Mycroft knew he would recall this moment forever.

Then Sherlock cleared his throat. “There’s something I’d like to ask you…”

Oh dear, what now? Mycroft gave him an expectant look. “Just shoot.”

“I was in Baker Street earlier. Met Mrs Hudson. And… my flat still looks as if, you know…”

“…there had been an explosion?” smirked Mycroft, guessing where this was going.

Sherlock grinned but it still looked a bit shy. “Something like that. It will be at least two more weeks until I can move back in. And… You know I’ve been staying at John’s but…”

“Sherlock, of course you can stay with me,” Mycroft interrupted him. What was his brother thinking? Even without recent developments, he would have always embraced the idea. He had plenty of space in his ridiculously big house. But… He had not offered it. What an idiot he had been. “I should have suggested it right away. But I thought you would prefer -…” He shook his head. “That was stupid. You are very welcome to stay here. You can have your own realm.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “So… No sleeping with you?”

Sometimes it was hard to accept that this was really happening. He hurried to put his arm around Sherlock's neck and pull him in for another soft, loving kiss which was wholeheartedly returned. But he could sense that Sherlock had something else on his mind. And he recalled their first conversation after Sherlock had seen the pictures. What he had said about him feeling off. Of having changed and not being the man he had once been anymore.

He pulled away and cupped Sherlock's cheek. “Sherlock… If you feel that this phase of your life is over – I mean, being a detective – you don’t have to move back in. You can help the Met anytime without living there anyway. Or do something completely different. If you want, stay here for good. I’d love that.” It was a big step. But even if their romantic relationship didn’t work out, which seemed more unlikely with every passing day, they would still always be brothers, and Mycroft would do everything in his power to prevent them from getting estranged again. And if Sherlock's look now was anything to go by, there wasn’t much danger that Sherlock could overthink recent developments. And of course Sherlock could get himself another flat anytime if he wanted that. But somehow Mycroft was sure that it would not come to this. And then he had an armful of baby brother and was squeezed so tight that he could hardly breathe, and he had never felt so happy in his life before.

The trust that Sherlock was putting into him. And their future together. And to even think about that this had happened because of the most embarrassing mishap of his life. It was breathtaking.


	5. Chapter 5

“Is it because Rosie cried so much last night? I think she’s getting a tooth.”

Sherlock winced at John’s tone – his friend sounded depressed and resigned, and his face was matching it. Even his tousled hair and his jumper looked depressed, actually… “No, it doesn’t have anything to do with Rosie. I just…”

“I mean, you could never stand your brother and now you want to _live_ with him? And it even sounds as if you plan to go on with it when 221B is restored.” John shook his head in disbelief. His hand was clamped around his mug but he had not even sipped at the tea Sherlock had made for breakfast.

Sherlock knew he would never be able to explain it. Naturally, he could not tell him that he and Mycroft were also lovers now, not just brothers anymore. And how he had stupidly considered that Mycroft would possibly refuse to let him move in – because why? Because Sherlock had, deep inside, feared that his brother, like Molly, had only admired him like some distant deity and would not want the real Sherlock? Stupid! Mycroft knew him like nobody else did. And that Mycroft had been so happy about his question had touched him more than he could put in words. And he could definitely not voice it now, of course.

But that was not the only reason why he just didn't want to move back into Baker Street anymore. This had been stewing in him for much longer than he had known that he was in love with Mycroft. Actually ever since he had returned from his mission to find John having moved out and living with Mary. Baker Street, that had been him and John. ‘The Baker Street Boys’ as Mary had called them. There was no way back to this. Not just because the flat was too small for two grown men and a baby, a baby that would soon start to crawl around so he wouldn’t have been able to do any dangerous experiments anymore. He had not felt the urge to do so for a long time but who knew. A baby that would rapidly grow into a toddler, running around, needing space, requiring safety. Even if John had moved back in now, it would have only postponed the inevitable. And rather sooner than later, John would find a substitute for Mary. Their time together was over, and they both knew it.

“I think… This phase of my life… It’s gone,” Sherlock said, unwilling to elaborate.

“So that means no cases anymore? Not even for the Met?” Now John didn’t sound quite as depressed anymore. Rather… aggressive.

Which was another reason for Sherlock not wanting to move back into his old flat. The memories of John’s violence. The losses. The pain. And knowing that the good old days were over for good. John was no bachelor anymore, no free man, searching for adventure. He was a widowed single dad. And Sherlock? How much of his younger self had he left behind in Eastern Europe? In the hospital after Mary had shot him? When he had pulled the trigger, cold-bloodedly killing Magnussen? He was different now. That man did no longer exist.

“I didn't say that,” he answered now, trying to remain calm. There was no reason to expect John to lash out on him once more. “I can still do that. I do have my phone and can go to the Yard or any crime scene anywhere in London.” He could also still solve cases for private clients, if anyone searched for his help. He would talk to Mrs Hudson. If someone didn't contact him via phone but showed up at his former address, she would just give them his number and he could meet them at a café or their homes or wherever. And of course she needed to know that he would not move back in. She would not be happy about it, he was sure, but he knew she would understand.

John bit his lip. “Sure. And you could still call me and ask me to join you…” There was a question hidden in this statement, and Sherlock nodded.

“Sure. I will do that.”

The doctor didn't look as if he really believed that. He gave Sherlock a sad smile. “Just don’t forget your old friends.” The aggression had left his voice as quickly as it had shown up. Resignation was the sentiment of the moment again.

His friends… Who was left? Was Lestrade really a friend? Or rather a colleague, a provider of adventure? Molly wouldn’t even pee on him if he had been stung by a jellyfish these days… Mrs Hudson, of course – she would always have a special place in his heart. Who was eighty-two years old. She wouldn’t be around forever. And Sherlock planned to visit her as often as possible. And John. The best friend he’d ever had. Until…

“I’m sorry, you know.” John finally let go of his mug and buried his face in his hands. “I did say it before but probably… No, it wasn’t enough, period. I was awful to you. Not just in this fucking morgue. Long before. It’s no wonder you don’t want me in your life anymore.”

Sherlock felt like screaming and running out. He didn't want to have this conversation. But of course he should have seen it coming. There was no way out of it. He couldn’t tell John about him and Mycroft. Because he couldn’t trust anyone with this knowledge. And how to explain anything he was feeling now? To John? Had they ever spoken about their feelings? No. John had cried in his arms, yes. And he had clumsily tried to comfort him. The situation had been awkward to say the least.

“It’s okay, John. I know I didn’t handle the situation very well when I came back from my mission. And I’ve never resented you for hitting me after Mary’s death.” Not at the time when it had happened. He had even embraced it. But his guilt had been almost eating him up at that time. Looking back at it now, it had sucked pretty much...

John huffed out a laugh. “We both know that’s a nice lie. I do appreciate it. It’s so unlike you.”

“Really, I…” Sherlock broke off. There was no resolving this. It exhausted him to think about it. He really did need a break from his friend. And suddenly, he felt very, very tired. He had not slept a lot as Rosie had indeed cried almost all night. But that was not the main reason.

They finished their breakfast in silence even though none of them had any appetite.

Half an hour later, John was on his way to work and Sherlock took a cab to Mycroft's, his violin and a bag with the stuff he had brought to John next to him on the back seat, being in a head space of grieve and hope. He was a man in love who had lost his best friend and whose life had been turned upside for the umpteenth time only days ago and it all felt new and confusing and lovely and he couldn’t wait to start his life at Mycroft's side while still mourning the one he had lost. He figured that he had a right to be confused. And he had profound trust in big brother to catch him like he had always done.

*****

Mycroft looked down at his brother for a long time, a myriad of emotions bubbling in his heart at the sight.

Sherlock was sound asleep on Mycroft's generous bed, wearing shorts and nothing else. But it was not at all as it had been all those years ago. There was no leering in Mycroft's way of regarding his brother – well, at least it was not the predominant feeling. He felt tenderness and a strong urge to protect this precious creature that was his baby brother from all possible harm in the world. Seeing the criss-cross scars from Serbia on his uncovered back was a strong reminder – as if he could ever forget – of how much his brother had already gone through. Mostly for people named Watson…

His alarm system had informed him that someone (Sherlock) had entered his house at nine-thirty. He had cancelled a meeting with Sir Edwin when there had not been any change an hour later. Little brother was still in his house, and something had told Mycroft that he was not feeling very well.

The doctor might not have reacted exactly well to Sherlock leaving his interim home. Let alone for moving in with the brother John Watson thought he couldn’t really stand. Mycroft sincerely hoped that there had not been any kind of violent reaction. A certain doctor should rather refrain from raising his hand against Sherlock one more time. Mycroft shouldn’t have let him get away with it before, but he had known that Sherlock wasn’t holding a grudge against the man he called his best friend. But now everything had changed, and Mycroft would not watch Sherlock being hurt again.

But he looked completely unharmed from what Mycroft could see. His brother’s face was buried in the pillows and his hair was covering most of it, but Mycroft was certain that he was physically fine. Maybe not mentally though as he was sleeping like a baby. Probably he had not gotten a lot of sleep in John’s home, considering the fact that it harboured an actual baby. Noisy creatures with bad manners, as far as Mycroft was concerned. Of course – he had been with baby-Sherlock too, but Mycroft had been a child himself at this time. These days, he couldn’t even imagine spending time with an infant.

Wouldn’t Sherlock miss this? Not exactly Rosamund Watson, but children of his own? He had been so proud of his goddaughter when she had been born. Of course – Sherlock was gay, but there were possibilities of having own children even with a male partner these days. Little brother would never have that if he was with him, Mycroft, for obvious reasons.

He shook these futile thoughts off. Sherlock had chosen him, and really – he couldn’t see Sherlock as a father.

Carefully, he sat down next to Sherlock on the bed, stroking the thick, black curls ever so gently, but he was not surprised when Sherlock opened his eyes and gave him a wry smile.

“What are you doing at home at this time of day?” He propped himself up on his right elbow.

“Just checking on you. Was it very ghastly, telling John that you’d move out?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Not really ghastly but…” He shook his head. “It’s impossible to describe. What I’m feeling…”

But Mycroft thought that he understood pretty well. So much had changed in Sherlock's life over the past few years. Especially in regards to his ex-blogger. A man so important to him, a friendship so deep and _‘the-two-of-us-against-the-rest-of-the-world’_ -like, and it had all turned sour.

He put his hand on Sherlock's cheek. “I see. It’s not easy.”

“No.” Suddenly Sherlock's expression changed. “How long can you stay?”

Mycroft grinned, shaking his head. “Why? Whatever do you have on your filthy little mind?”

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock glowered at him – playfully “Well, I’m almost naked so we can as well take advantage of this situation. I mean – it’s the state you like me in the most, don't you?”

Mycroft gasped. “Low blow, little brother. I don’t appreciate it!” Of course Sherlock had a point and they both knew it. But this wasn’t just about sex. Not at all. But Sherlock was well aware of that, too, so it was okay.

“No?” Sherlock smiled way too innocently, before he elegantly took off his last piece of clothing, making Mycroft's throat go completely dry when he stared at his brother’s member again. It was not fully hard but plumbing already, a long, pink treat with a cute mushroom head, looking as tasty as they got.

Mycroft refrained from repeating his _‘let’s take it slow’_ mantra that wouldn’t work for them anyway. Instead he bent down, grabbed the rapidly hardening thing, and proceeded to find out if it tasted as delicious as it looked.

*****

At the first contact of soft, warm lips and a wet tongue with the head of his cock, Sherlock moaned loudly, almost losing it instantly. He desperately tried to calm himself down, watching in awe how Mycroft winked at him and let his cock slide deeper into the hot cave of his mouth. There was something absolutely amazing about seeing his brother’s lips around his cock, performing an act of total deviance so nonchalantly – and with so much capability.

It was even harder to not be jealous of the other men his brother had obviously done this for –even though Mycroft had denied to be exactly experienced – than to not spill his load at once. Who had been worthy of Mycroft's attention? Nobody, Sherlock was sure. Was _he_? After all he had done to his brother, after all those years of estrangement? That Mycroft seemed to think so indeed made him feel humble and blessed – aside from utterly aroused. He would have never expected this to happen so quickly, and he was surprised that Mycroft had gone straight for his cock, but he knew there would be more, so much more, and it was utterly fascinating.

So he watched in awe, shivering from head to toe, mumbling incoherent nonsense, how his brother worshipped his cock, pulled at his balls ever so gently, producing noises that would have given their mother an instant stroke.

And when Sherlock tumbled over the edge way too soon for his liking, Mycroft swallowed his load with the same elegance in which he usually whirled his umbrella around or sipped at his drink. Sherlock, feeling utterly boneless, just fell backwards, a happy grin spreading on his face, and he eagerly kissed his brother back when Mycroft searched for his lips. The taste was nothing Sherlock had ever had the pleasure to savour, and he couldn’t wait for his own go at Mycroft's large member, but for now he just relished eating his brother’s face with all he had, and there was no place he would have been rather at than here, on his brother’s bed, beneath Mycroft's still fully clothed body, feeling safer and more appreciated than he had ever done.

*****

Mycroft had certainly never expected to be granted by this sight – baby brother licking the remains of his come shot off his luscious lips as if it was ambrosia.

Sherlock had attacked his cock with a vigour that probably matched doing experiments with rotten body parts, he mused when Sherlock let himself drop onto the mattress face first after a naughty wink. A pink tongue had eagerly lapped at Mycroft's slit, played with the swollen crown and the super sensitive spot between it and the shaft before he had bravely swallowed Mycroft's cock. There had been some gagging, quickly suppressed. There had been a hint of teeth, instantly covered by plush lips. And there had been lots of eagerness and passion and cute little hums of pleasure.

In short, Sherlock had taken to sucking him like a fish took to water, of course not wanting his performance to be lacking after Mycroft had entertained him in this way, doing a very good job if Mycroft might say so himself. He had not told little brother that it had been his own first time as well. He had never granted anyone with this kind of attention, not having found anyone worthy of it. But he might have done some research recently and perhaps he had practised a bit with a green vegetable.

Sherlock had clearly been jealous of the faceless men he thought Mycroft had done this with. It was very flattering. Being the subject of Sherlockian jealousy was also not something he would have ever expected. That it was totally futile didn't diminish his enjoyment in the least. Probably there could have been men for more than one-time encounters with him as a top in anal intercourse and the recipient of oral attention, he mused. But what would have been the point? In the end, he would have dropped them anyway as they had simply not been baby brother.

“Seeing something you like?” came from the pillows now.

Mycroft smirked. Someone was not fond of being ignored. Not that he had actually done this. And yes, actually… He performed a playful smack on the body part that was offered to him so wantonly. The body part that had been the protagonist of his fantasies for so long.

“Ow!” Sherlock turned his head and glowered at him.

Mycroft chuckled. “Please. That did not hurt.”

Sherlock huffed. “Perhaps not but that was not what I was insinuating.”

“Oh, was it not?” Mycroft feigned innocent curiosity, feeling like the king of the castle. After having felt so low after their Sherrinford-adventure. The miracle of love indeed…

Blue-green eyes were narrowed. “No. I mean… Don’t you like it? Anymore? My bum?”

Mycroft shook his head, thoroughly stunned and touched. He reached out to put his hand onto one of the delicious cheeks. “I adore it. I’d love to plunge my face right into it and lick you out.”

Sherlock almost choked on his spit. “Woah. That was crude! Do it!”

Mycroft grinned and patted the warm cheek. “A man must have at least a bit of self-control. And patience.”

Sherlock sulked. “Patience. I hate that word.”

“I know you do, little brother. But delayed gratification is a thing, I’ve heard.”

The brave detective grimaced as if he was in pain. “That’s a goldfish concept!” he complained.

“They are not always wrong,” smirked Mycroft. It was so much fun to wind him up a bit. That was worth waiting with more goodies for another day or two. It would be delusional to think Sherlock would let him postpone it any longer. And of course Mycroft couldn’t wait to finally have his way with the star of his daydreams. But waiting just a bit more would make it just the bit sweeter.

Sherlock huffed. “If you don’t want to eat me now, feed me at least.”

“I thought I just had done so,” mused Mycroft, grinning when Sherlock chuckled into the pillows at that.

“I didn’t mean this kind of high-protein diet, Mycroft. Do keep up.”

“I would but I’m middle-aged,” deadpanned Mycroft, and he laughed when Sherlock groaned at this bad joke. “You seriously want to eat? Well, let’s see what I can do for you before I have to head back to Whitehall.”

“Must you? Take the day off.”

Mycroft’s heart melted. He knew that Sherlock didn't want to be alone after his unpleasant morning. But needs must, and little brother knew that very well. “I’m afraid I do. But I won’t be back late.”

“Okay. We could take a bath together when you’re back.”

What a lovely idea. “We definitely will.” Mycroft bent down to kiss Sherlock's shoulder. “Let’s refresh ourselves and then I will do some magic in the kitchen.”

Sherlock nodded and got up to embrace him, and Mycroft squeezed him tight. He would never get used to this. Little brother being all nice and sexy and cuddly with him. Miracles were also a thing these days, he supposed.


	6. Chapter 6

_She knows it._ Why had he not seen that coming? Why was it a surprise, a very unpleasant one, that his sister, smarter than him and even Mycroft, had only had to glance at him once to see what had changed in his life since they had parted at Musgrave?

He didn't know what reaction he had expected, but probably it had not been this sad, resigned smile. Had she had plans to make him turn against Mycroft? Finish her game? Via what – telepathy? Because of course they were being watched. One wrong move from her and several warders – who were checked over each and every day to make sure their brains had not been meddled with – would storm in, armed with not only guns but tasers, and make sure this wouldn’t go on.

Mycroft would be watching them via video feed like a hawk. And he would not have missed the widening of her eyes and the stunned parting of her lips when Sherlock had been approaching her cell. A chain reaction of deductions had set in. Sherlock still had no idea why she had asked him if he’d had sex when they had first met without her being disguised, right here, but she was not wrong this time.

It had to infuriate or at least thoroughly disappoint her that every hint of a chance of making him kill Mycroft, if that had really been her plan – he couldn’t really tell – had vanished by him falling in love with their big brother.

He winced at the sudden thought that she might have deduced Mycroft's feelings for him a long time ago, and had wanted him to shoot Mycroft as she had found it funny to let Mycroft die from the hands of the man he secretly loved. Suddenly he felt something like hatred for her, and of course she did not miss it, and her smile got even sadder.

Sherlock felt like turning around and simply leaving, going back to London, seeing Mycroft, who deserved his attention so much more than this creature of hatred and revenge. Mycroft, with whom he now could be light and tender and funny even when he wasn’t feeling that cheerful because of John. Who had shared a long, hot bath with him the previous evening, washing his back. Who could be so cool and so funnily vulgar the next moment. Who denied himself making love to him right away because he wanted Sherlock to be sure. Mycroft, whom he loved more with every day.

What kept him and made him bend down to take his violin out of his bag was the memory of Mycroft in the presence of their parents, behaving like a meek, beaten man, and, oddly enough, also the memory of Eurus in the ruins of Musgrave, beaten for real and utterly vulnerable. He knew very well that he could not heal what was broken in her. Nobody could. Perhaps it could have been done when she had still been the child that had taken Victor away. But he doubted it. Something essential was damaged in her soul – if she even had one.

All he could do was ease her loneliness for a while, and even though the murderous woman who had been playing her cruel games with him, Mycroft, and John did not deserve it, the little girl he had seen in her when he had promised her that her lonely days were over might deserve at least a chance. He would have promised anything to make her save John, naturally, but he _was_ her brother, after all, and she had done all this, well, not exactly _for_ him but because of him. The little girl she had long ceased to be but that was obviously still locked inside her in a way had been extremely jealous of everybody who had drawn his attention away from her. Back then it had been Victor. From Jim Moriarty she must have known that a few years back it had been John, so she had wanted to drown him, too. And now she had to realise that Mycroft had won him, in the end. Not only had he not been killed by Sherlock, he was now allowed to love him. Nothing could be crueller for her.

And yet – when they started to play now, she almost seemed to be at peace. Resignation was probably the better word, though. But her play was beautiful, and he knew it would be the only way to reach her. She would not respond to their parents, he was certain. But he knew his mother. She would do anything to console her little girl, the daughter she had thought she had lost forever. Would Eurus tell their parents about them? If she ever chose to speak again? Sherlock doubted it. She had nothing to gain by this. Even if their parents believed it, it would not destroy their love. It was still so fresh and new but Sherlock was absolutely sure of this. He would never give Mycroft up again, and vice versa. No matter what. And Eurus knew, and so she wouldn’t waste her time trying to expose their forbidden love, knowing it would only make it stronger.

*****

“Sorry I’m so late. The meeting with the French ambassador took ages.” Mycroft slipped beneath the blanket of his generous bed, warmed by deliciously naked baby brother.

“Ah, chores. Work. Do you never tire of this?” Sherlock asked before planting a soft kiss on Mycroft's lips.

In fact, he already was pretty tired of it, if he allowed himself to think about it. The horrors of Sherrinford and the reprimands he had gotten for it had only made that worse. But he was a man of duty, and he was devoted to his country. But he somehow didn't see himself working these long hours, shouldering so much responsibility, for the next twenty years. Wasn’t fifty a good age to retire? Well, that was still nearly seven years away. Of course – if their forbidden relationship was discovered and exposed, it would be over much sooner.

He had given this some thinking over the past few days. Perhaps it would be a good idea to get prepared for that matter. New identities. Some real estate in a gay-friendly country with moderate temperatures. They would be very careful. But one could never know. It never hurt to be ready. Would Sherlock do that though? If given the choice of either ending their forbidden relationship or going to prison, what would he do? Run away with him? Or say, _‘It was nice as long as it lasted but I want to keep my friends’?_ If it lasted very long in the first place… Sherlock was a creature notorious for losing interest very quickly when things got boring. Would he, who Sherlock had always thought was a borer, keep his interest once they had gone all the way sexually? Or would he move on to someone with whom he could be without having to fear prosecution?

“Mycroft, you’re thinking so loudly that it hurts my ears. And it’s an insult you could even consider this. You’re stuck with me. If it’s not you who’s got second thoughts, that is,” Sherlock rumbled, making Mycroft wince.

“I… Of course not. Apologies. It was a long day and silly old men develop weird thoughts when the stress gets too much,” he replied with a wry smile.

It had indeed been a long day. And aside from all the reports he’d had to work on and the meetings he’d had to attend, he had spent some time with his eyes glued to his screen, watching every second of Sherlock's interaction with sister dear. Of course he had, like Sherlock, immediately realised that she had figured out what was going on between them. She must have seen Sherlock's ‘freshly in love’ glow, besides his melancholy about being disconnected from his former life and his friends in many ways. And being the genius that she was, she had drawn the correct conclusions. Perhaps she had thought he was in love with John Watson before they had gone to Sherrinford, but it must have become obvious to her that he was not. And she had apparently not even considered that it could be Molly Hooper. She _was_ smart after all. Her reaction had said it all. She hated it. But she knew she had lost.

Sherlock had come to Whitehall after his visit, and they had called their parents, informing them of her being still verbally unresponsive but willing to connect with Sherlock through the music. Mummy had insisted on visiting her the next day, and she had also insisted on Mycroft accompanying them, and he would do it. Of course they had to face the possibility that she would try to give them away to their parents, but he honestly couldn’t see that happening for real. He had watched her closely. She knew she was finished.

“No. Not old. But silly you are, brother mine,” Sherlock all but purred, his hand going astray beneath the blanket.

Mycroft shivered when his bum was touched through his pyjama trousers. His cock filled out instantly. He so wanted it… But it was late, he had another long day ahead of him, and he didn't want to rush this. They needed time for this and it was supposed to be special. “Tomorrow,” he whispered, pulling Sherlock in so they lay flush against each other.

Sherlock nibbled at his bottom lip before he sighed. “Fine. And don’t think for another moment I could leave when I got it. I will only want more and more.”

“And you will get it,” Mycroft said, smiling, his heart swelling with gratitude and love.

They fell asleep with Sherlock nuzzling against his neck and Mycroft's arms wrapped tightly around him.

*****

Wasn’t this a tad pathetic? He shouldn’t be feeling so relieved now. Mycroft looked down on Mummy’s hand, which had reached for his own. How embarrassing to be so happy to have been forgiven. Thank God, Sherlock was immersed in his playing and couldn’t see that happy little smile that was pulling at his lips now.

He pressed Mummy’s hand and shared a look with Father, despite his embarrassment genuinely grateful for being in their good books again. When he looked towards his siblings now, who were separated by the glass wall that would never disappear from Eurus’ cell again, he caught his sister glancing at him with this strangely moving smile. She knew it, yes, and she also knew that there was nothing she could do about it.

Mycroft had once more contacted people to assure her safe imprisonment, knowing how immensely important it was to contain her for good. There was no way that she could have any contact with the world outside anymore; she could not get any opportunity to manipulate someone into killing either Sherlock or him. Because he simply knew she would do that, having one of them mourn the other one until the one left couldn’t live with the loss anymore and killed himself, or perhaps she would have either or both of them crippled, unable to indulge their unbrotherly bond. He was sure she would have found a creative solution for the _real_ final problem…

A narcissistic person like her could not be punished any more effectively than by being beaten at her own game. She had known that both he and Sherlock were, in truth, very emotional human beings, no matter how much they had always protested against this judgement. She had forced them to play a game of humiliation and cruelty in order to watch them break. She must have known that Sherlock, though not one to display any affection for Mycroft, did care about him, so killing him would have hurt him. And then her plan had been to take John Watson away from him, too, by killing him in exactly the same way as his childhood friend Victor, which she would have gleefully explained to Sherlock while the water in this godforsaken well would have been swallowing the little man.

Only Sherlock's kindness to her, fake or not, had broken the spell. And her own deeply hidden wish to be saved by him, which had conjured up the girl on the plane. They had all been very lucky that Sherlock was so smart and compassionate, even for the monster that was their sister. And after that, feeling vulnerable and emotionally open, he had longed to reach out to Mycroft, and the rest was, as they said, history.

And now he was reaching out to her by using the only language that might get to her – the beautiful music they were playing together. Watching them and listening to them had melted their parents’ hearts so they had forgiven him his – necessary – lies. Mycroft was absolutely sure that there would be no saving this woman with the heart as black as the deepest depths of the waters that surrounded the island of Sherrinford, but here they were, the complete Holmes family, and at least there was some peace surrounding them in this moment.

And later he would be alone with Sherlock again, would be allowed to show him how much he meant to him and how deeply he cared for and how fiercely he desired him – as Mycroft knew today was the right day for seriously being together. This – his and Sherlock's loving relationship – had effectively only happened because of the events of that horrifying day in this forsaken place of cold steel and loneliness, and for that, he would always be grateful.

*****

Mycroft stopped dead when he walked into his bedroom, dressed in his bathrobe, his hair still damp from the shower, his cheeks burning a bit from the aftershave he had applied.

Sherlock was waiting for him, naked, arranged on the bed in exactly the same pose as he had seen on that photograph Mycroft had taken so many years ago. Speaking of an eidetic memory…

Regarding his younger brother’s form in the dim light of the bedroom, Mycroft noticed once more all the changes Sherlock's body had gone through since he had taken this photo. The boy had turned into a man, the unblemished skin of the teenager showing the scars of an adventurous life and the inevitable ageing of a man in his mid thirties. Mycroft had been feverishly in love with the young Sherlock, but now he loved him in a more all-encompassing way.

They would forever be brothers but the man Sherlock had become had captured Mycroft's heart with the genuine affection he had been showing for him over the past few days. If he loved Sherlock any more than he did now, said heart would probably implode.

Inevitably, his look was pulled to that magic forbidden spot between these two glorious cheeks. The feeling of deep love and wonder at this miraculous sight turned into sheer physical need. And unlike all those years ago, when he had first seen his little brother like this, he knew that his advances would be not only welcome but were fiercely demanded right now.

Sherlock raised his head a bit and winked at him. “My phone’s on the bed stand. Do it.”

Mycroft tutted while undoing the belt of his robe. “You know I will have to delete it at once. Or would you like a picture of your own arse as your phone background?” He wondered why he was playing coy at all. It was a futile attempt and they both knew it.

“No, you dolt. I know we’ll have to delete it. But come on. Don’t tell me you don’t want it.”

Of course he did. And with his own eidetic memory, it would be adorned to the door of his mind palace forever… So he took the picture, took several of them, in fact, and he sat down on the bed next to Sherlock to show him the results, and there was chuckling and joking and Mycroft felt completely at ease – what a difference to how he had been feeling twenty years ago. Guilt and the feeling of being dirty and depraved – which had still not kept him from masturbating to the photographs – were replaced by pride and love and the knowledge of his sentiments being accepted and returned, and that was a bloody good feeling.

And no matter how hard it had to be for Sherlock to have basically lost his own home and the majority of his friends, little brother also seemed happy. And of course Mycroft’s house was his home now, too, and would remain it. Mrs Hudson had reacted to the news of Sherlock not moving back into 221B with understanding – and not a lot of surprise. Sherlock had put his belongings into the guest room closest to Mycroft's bedroom but as far as Mycroft was concerned, he was never going to sleep in it. Sherlock's place was at his side, in his arms. If any of his friends came along, he could show them his new realm if he was so inclined, but there was no separation from one another during the night. A truly new life for both of them.

Mycroft deleted the pictures, frowning a bit as he would have loved to keep them, to print them out and decorate his house with them, actually, but it was the reasonable thing to do. And probably there should be at least a bit of reason left even in this most unreasonable affair – but of course also the only really emotional and meaningful one – he had ever had.

When he had put the phone away, he sat down again to capture Sherlock's seductive mouth in a deep, loving kiss before he placed himself between his brother’s widely spread legs and began the process of taking him, and on the go himself, apart.

*****

Sherlock was floating on a cloud of sexual hormones, combined with his heart almost combusting with love. His cock was so hard it was probably poking a formidable hole into Mycroft's sheets while his arse was invaded by a hot tongue and two skilful fingers in quick succession. By now it had to be gaping open, fluttering most funnily, asking to be entered, and the entire bottom part of his body felt as if it had been set on fire.

But the best part of it was that he knew he could let go. He had never craved such intimacy before, and one of the many reasons for it had been that he had feared he would be feeling vulnerable, exposed, and horribly embarrassed.

There was none of these ghastly feelings now. One reason was perhaps that Mycroft wasn’t even trying to be ‘decent’, if this would have been even remotely possible under the circumstances. Incestuous, gay, mouth-to-arse sex was probably indecent by design. But Mycroft was putting on a rather delightful show, praising the sweetness of his hole when he was pausing to let his fingers do the job for a moment, slurping and drooling and moaning when his mouth was busy worshipping Sherlock's private space.

Who would have thought that the Iceman was prone to getting down and dirty in such literal ways? He briefly wondered what Irene would say if she could see him now. Or John… Gunther! Molly… Eurus! And, funniest choice of all – their parents…

“Why are you laughing?” Mycroft asked him, raising his head. “You should be praising my name and begging me for more instead!”

Sherlock snorted. “I should, and I think I’ve already done both quite impressively.” He really had been wiggling and moaning and grunting in pleasure, making bestial noises he would have never thought himself capable of, and there had been some begging too if he remembered correctly. “But I just thought what Mummy would think of us now…”

Mycroft groaned. “Please. Not remotely an appropriate topic now, little brother!”

“True. But it’s still funny. Now that you’re her good boy again, she would be -… Ow!” He turned his head to glower at spanky big brother. He was supposed to spoil his lush backside, not make it sting!

Mycroft looked most untouched. “You had that coming, bratty brother mine.”

Sherlock grinned. “Maybe. You have any idea how cute you look with your lips all wet and swollen from licking my arse? And your front curl is rioting quite fetchingly.”

Mycroft sighed and smoothed his hair back. “I think it’s time to fuck some manners into you.”

Sherlock opened his mouth in delight. “By all means – try your luck! It won’t work but I want this big thing up there.” Mycroft had really prepared him thoroughly by now.

“Fine. But you’re going to saddle up so you decide how much you can take.”

Always the caring big brother… Not that long ago, Sherlock would have been – stupidly – appalled by this. Now he had to admit that he loved it. “Okay. Be my horse, big brother mine.”

That brought him another typical Holmesian eye-rolling but not more than five minutes later, cowboy Sherlock Holmes had gotten into the saddle, and neither of them was joking anymore.

*****

Not one of the photographs he had taken all those years ago was comparable with anything that had happened between them so far. Giving Sherlock a blowjob, receiving one from him. Rimming baby brother’s fantastic arse. And now the – so far – climax of all their activities. Sherlock, curls bouncing, sweat running over his defined abs, riding him into the mattress, very obviously enjoying himself tremendously.

What a feeling it was to have his cock engulfed by little brother’s tight canal, listening to the sounds of their intimate encounter. Wet, squelching noises. Sherlock’s gasps and sighs and moans. The harsh slapping of skin on skin. The mattress was wobbling beneath Mycroft, and his balls were squeezed in a way that was both painful and delicious. His hands were on Sherlock's hips, both to caress and to stabilize him. Their eyes were locked almost the entire time, and with every further thrust, he seemed to get closer to his brother, was their bond being sealed just that bit more.

Mycroft had never, ever, even dreamt of having this, of having Sherlock in the most literal and all other ways. He possessed his body right now, and he knew he also possessed Sherlock's heart. What a long way they had come from resentments and diet jokes and mockery and hurt. It had taken an experience of absolute horror – Sherrinford – and a slipping of huge dimensions – mixing up the stolen nude pictures with a government folder – to grant them with this – love, trust and a future they were both looking forward to.

Sherlock seemed to have lost his love for the thrill of the chase to some extent. Perhaps he would stop being a detective completely in a few years. And Mycroft was absolutely willing to give up his position of power as well. Not just if they were discovered and being threatened by legal consequences. He could imagine that they would someday be annoyed by having to hide their relationship. Annoyed enough to leave it all behind. It didn’t have to come to this. But it could. And Mycroft would be prepared in every sense of the word.

A whole new world had opened up for the Holmes brothers, a world in which sentiment ruled and in which love was so much more important than Queen and country, and, ultimately, much more important than Doctor Watson and Sherlock’s Baker Street life.

Well, little brother was indulging in the thrill of the chase once more now – the chase of his sexual completion. He reached it, letting his hot semen splash all over Mycroft's hairy chest, only seconds after Mycroft had spilled deep inside of him.

He collapsed on Mycroft, and Mycroft welcomed him with a tight embrace, a kiss on the damp forehead, and the feeling of peace and love and safety, and nothing could have felt better.

The End


End file.
